Of Mice Beyond Mayhem
by Gyrotank
Summary: An unofficial sequel to Chris Fischer's graphic novel 'Of Mice and Mayhem'. Rescue Rangers come face to face with Black Table - a mighty secret organization aiming to take the United States under control.
1. Preface & Prologue

**Of Mice Beyond Mayhem**

by Gyrotank

_**Preface**_

This story continues the plotline of Chris Fischer's graphic novel 'Of Mice and Mayhem'. It must not be considered an official sequel, because Chris took no part in it and thus it represents a very loose and very subjective interpretation of OMAM events and characters' relations, although some episodes were based on OMAM-2 sketches presented by Chris Fischer in 2003 during the annual Golden Acorn Award ceremony.

The characters created by Chris Fischer are used with his permission, although I took liberties to give some of them my own versions of their full names where appropriate. I also exchanged letters with Chris a couple of times in order to clarify some details, but all in all Chris bears no responsibility for this text. I am willing to concede that Chris would never write it this way, but, as we all surely know, fan creations are famous for throwing the characters into a mess their creators could never dream of even in their worst nightmares.

The CDRR fans will probably find some moments of the story too extreme or exaggerated for a Disney Afternoon show. Unfortunately, it can't be avoided since this story is OMAM-based fan fiction in the first place, and OMAM has already pushed the envelope far beyond the limits of the canon so, like it or not, I had to keep in line with it. Still, the story is a CDRR fan fiction, so a certain degree of cartoonism remains, too. I don't know whether I managed to balance these mutually exclusive components, but I honestly tried.

As usual, all characters of "Chip'n'Dale Rescue Rangers" cartoon series are property of the Walt Disney Corporation and are used without permission for the sole purpose of personal entertainment. Same is true for the characters created by authors of popular works of literature, cinema, TV, radio, and other media alluded and hinted on here and there throughout the text to liven the picture up. Other characters and all depicted events are products of author's imagination. There are also some real historical events mentioned in the text which the author interprets after his own fashion and at his own risk and asks the readers not to consider his views to be the only and absolute truth.

Some very important parts of the plot take place in the country ruled by the dictator whom Gadget assassinated in OMAM. Since he was clearly based on Saddahm Hussein, it's logical to assume that the country in question is Iraq. While its name isn't mentioned in OMAM, in Russian translation made by CDRRHQ members it was named 'Allahakbarnistan' (probably as allusion for the aforementioned Iraq which has the words 'Allah Akbar' on its state flag). But I thought that it was too pretentious and shortened it to 'Akbarnistan'. The geographical names associated with it were also made up, although I tried to make them similar to their real life prototypes for better and clearer binding to the corresponding geographical region.

Despite this, I sincerely ask the readers not to identify Akbarnistan as Iraq and the nearby country of Ayran — as Iran. I consider OMAM taking place not in the real world but in one of the Rangerverses which closely resembles our world but doesn't match it exactly. The same is true for other, real countries mentioned and described in the text since I have never been to them personally, know nothing about realities there and thus I ask my readers to consider these descriptions and thoughts about them a product not of scientific research but of pure imagination.

To cut the long preface short I want to cite Chris Fischer himself: 'Most importantly, it's all in fun. Enjoy.' I don't think anything needs to be added here.

**Prologue**

**Information and Reflection**

_Day minus Twentieth, evening_

"Thank you for spending the hour with us! The program was brought to you by Molly Waters-"

"-and Stan Blather! We and the whole Channel Six News team say goodbye to you and sincerely ask you not to switch channels since an upcoming commercial break will be immediately followed by the dialogue-show 'Nightfall Conversation' between the show's customary host Henry Dougherty and his new share of surprising guests! Stay with us!"

The floodlights on two masts went off and turned the pair of news anchors into black silhouettes merged with the equally black table against the background of flickering screens. Nevertheless, Stan's trademark grin vanished only when the chords of commercial break intro sounded from the speakers indicating that the viewers were seeing not the studio but the channel logo formed by numerous entangling elements. Stan exhaled mightily and almost made the papers laid on the table before him scatter. In the age of digital technology and transparent electronic prompters the papers were only props but still excelled at creating the hard work atmosphere and imbuing the detached observers with all the hardships associated with anchors' business at once.

"Put a bit more pep into it, Stan!" Waters noted half-jokingly, half-reproachfully.

"What for, Molly?" Blather asked rhetorically. He took his microphone off his lapel and pushed himself off from the table. "Nobody will ever see it."

"I will," Susan Spaulding, pretty brown-haired TV director wearing angular glasses and dark business suit objected. "And Lonny," she addressed the nearby cameraman. "Am I right, Lonny?"

"Right," Leonard 'Lonny' Kravitz confirmed without looking away from the camera he was adjusting. "What are we talking about?"

"Oh, come on. I know you heard everything!" Spaulding said.

"And saw everything," the cameraman added.

"Here, here, exactly! Got it, Stan?"

"Got it," Blather answered. "Lonny is like an old bison — sees everything he doesn't hear."

Suzy giggled. Lonny hemmed. Just like always.

Blather went around the table and squeezed himself past half-transparent decorative wall and a corner camera in the direction of studio exit. Dougherty was already waiting for him there, the thick aroma of expensive shaving crème and aura of a man who had a very good sleep and a supper in an exquisite restaurant spreading for some hundred feet around him.

"Not bad, Stanley, not bad at all," Henry slapped his hand on his colleague's shoulder. "The punch line on that loony farmer was kind of slurred, though. His problems are far beyond your scope, I know, but the anchor should pull up everything. You're giving out, old man."

"Thanks, you look great, too." Stan muttered. "Who's this time?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Another potential 'idol'." He then leaned closer to Blather's ear and went on in softer voice. "By the way, but only between you and me, everything is already set there. The winner will be that guy, Nelson."

"I don't follow it, Henry-"

"You think I do? But it's one hundred percent guarantee! You can safely go and toto all your money! Don't waste the chance to rise your earnings quite a bit! But no names, mind you! Information is strictly top secret, okay?"

"Why don't you bet yourself?" Stan asked.

Dougherty grinned widely showing his pearl-white Hollywood teeth. "I did! So make haste! Each bet and each stage lowers the factor!"

"What do I owe you?"

Dougherty slightly pushed Stan with his elbow. "Skip it! Consider it a token of friendship. Okay, then, goodbye, it's my entrance!"

"Have a good show!" Blather wished him and stepped out into a corridor, blindingly white after studio's twilight. He greeted a pair of scarcely familiar co-workers and went to the men's room to splash some cold water on his face. Watching his fingers growing covered with rust-coloured stains, Stan looked in the mirror to see puffy face with bags under eyes previously hidden by make-up which was now running down in damp patches. Heart-rending sight, as distant from image of successful and prosperous Dougherty as 'American Idol' participants from real singers…

_Maybe I should bet, after all? You never can tell, can you? _Blather thought. He tore a paper napkin off a roll and blotted his face which grew spotty like giraffe's skin. If it goes wrong, it goes wrong.

They started working here almost simultaneously; Stanley Blather and Henry Dougherty nicknamed 'Hendog' for short. Today it's mentioned only in whisper and only by those who rose high enough to have no fear of Dougherty's wrath and, more importantly, libel action. For nowadays he was Henry the Magnificent, the creator and host of the highest rated night TV show of the last four seasons. His astounding success made people amazed and perplexed at the same time, and despite their friendship even Stan couldn't help but wonder whether Henry received information on the 'Idol' winner because of his status or he acquired his status because he knew how to get such information. In any case, lean and handsome showman had clear advantage over stooping and plump reporter and periodic co-anchor of 5 AM and 11 PM newsreel who had used all his chances up and whose best years were in the past.

"Stan, tomorrow you are our early morning anchor! Be fit!" Suzy shouted from the far end of the corridor when Stan stepped out of the men's room having exterminated three more napkins. Twenty three years ago, when he heard exactly the same phrase from Spaulding's predecessor, Serena 'the Steel Lady' Steele, he was in the seventh heaven and ran down the corridor as if having wings. This time he simply waved his hand to confirm the message reception and slowly walked towards elevators. Even in comparison with their shining doors, not to mention many of those who started working here on the same year as him and by now has either moved to the station's administrative building on East 79th street or, like Dougherty, was running his or her own projects, Blather's life looked like a failure.

No one could call him lazy. Quite the contrary, he sweated his guts out, travelled the country all over from Cape Canaveral to Mount McKinley and told his viewers lots and lots of breathtaking stories. Some ten years ago it was enough to be considered venerable master. But Stan came just a bit too late, and his career's zenith coincided with information and communication boom of the end of the previous decade. Stan was a little too old for all that and involuntarily gave way to fresh graduates of technical colleges with poor diction but good nose for technological trends. These fledglings of the twenty first century didn't leave even a ghost of a chance to pterodactyls of the 90's, just like modern sport sedans easily beat his good but too old second generation Ford Taurus, once the most popular car in the US. A prominent example of how similar the fates of the thing and its owner can be.

Stan passed one hundred and twenty-eight feet between the elevator and his parking place on pure muscle memory, rubbing his suddenly aching head and knowing that with each passing year these night shifts would become harder and harder for him to bear. He used to consider his profession the best and each working day inimitable, but all passed years turned it into a drag for sooner or later you grow tired of everything, even diversity, not to mention that if you come to think of it you'll notice that it can be reduced to a set of constantly repeating actions.

It was true even now, for when Stan got into his car, he once again asked the fate to give him a chance; just one more chance to do something really important, something that would add his name to the annals of history or, at the very least, to Wikipedia. Then, like every other day, he switched the engine on and drove home along the road learned by heart, not knowing that his wish was about to come true.

As usual, nothing heralded it. There were no wonders or omens. That is, if you discount the red traffic light on the intersection of Lexington Avenue and East 62nd street which stayed on for almost thrice as long as usual. Soon impatient horns started rending through the air, some drivers even left their cars, and the most impulsive cursed the aforementioned lights, the municipal utility services and perpendicular traffic at the same time. In other words, Middle Manhattan was living its ordinary life when the rear right door of Stan Blather's silver Taurus standing in the second lane opened and let in some very suspicious person wearing mostly dark grey clothes and black balaclava with holes for his eyes and mouth only.

"Don't move, don't shout and don't do anything stupid" the stranger ordered and emphasized his words with loud click which Stan, having seen many thrillers in his life, instantly recognized as a sound of a pistol hammer cocking.

"I-I h-have l-l-little cur-r-rency…" Stan managed to force out. "Y-you c-can take my p-phone and my c-car but it is o-o-old and-"

"I don't need your belongings, Mister Blather. I need you. Your help, to be exact." The stranger's voice was level and completely emotionless. Only Stan's rich experience of talking with his mother-in-law allowed him to detect slight and almost undistinguishable Midwestern accent.

"H-h-help? B-but I don't help s-street rob-bers- W-wait a m-minute, I know m-my name?"

"I know more about us than you can imagine, Stan. That's why I turned to you. Shall we drive?"

"Wh-where? Wh-what for?"

"Come on, Stan, if I wanted to kill you I'd have done it long ago. My gun's equipped with silencer and no one would have noticed my coming and going in this mess. Do I still look like street robber to you?"

"Well…" Stan hesitated, having no idea how to explain the stranger his feelings without getting shot.

The stranger's thick lips broke into smile. "All right, I'll show you some street magic then." He took out small control resembling a car lock key-ring except for thin metal antenna, extended his hand to allow Blather see everything and pressed the green button. The traffic lights on the opposite side of the street changed into yellow, and everybody rushed back to their cars. "Do I still look like street robber to you?" The stranger asked again.

"Wh-who are you?" Blather muttered.

"You may call me David."

"David-" Stan choked. Now, with immediate threat to his life seemingly gone, his fear changed into annoyance. "You humble me, right? 'Street magic', 'David'… You're just-" His rant was interrupted by a loud horn blow, this time addressed to him personally. The cars in the other lanes were moving already.

"Don't be a fool, Mister Blather," the stranger said; his voice as cold as graveyard frost. "As you can see, it took me quite some efforts to arrange our meeting. I really need your help and I consider you very valuable as a specialist. But my own security and security of my comrades is much more valuable to me, that's why if anything goes wrong, I won't hesitate to put a bullet through your head and through the head of the driver behind us. As you can see, he's already sticking his head out of the car and soon will come here. He's Italian, which means he's impulsive and has many children. And now his life is in your hands and legs, Stan. Drive."

The sweating reporter nodded nervously and switched gears. "Where are we going?"

"Central Park."

"Central- Okay, okay, I got it! I'm driving!"

"Good. And one more thing: don't try to fool me. I know New York."

Blather nodded and after driving through the intersection moved to the rightmost lane. His unnamed passenger leaned back on his seat and glanced into the window. "I love Manhattan."

"Yes," Blather gave an irrelevant answer while turning on East 61st.

'David' smiled with his lips only. "You hold your own very well."

"Really? I was told today that I'm getting too old."

"Who said that?"

"A friend."

"He doesn't know you," 'David' stated.

"He's my old friend," Stan objected.

"I bet he never held you at gunpoint."

Blather coughed. "Have to admit we never went that far."

"We won't, too, if you stop pretending being a hero and asking the police to stop us for exceeding speed limit," 'David' informed him pointing at the speedometer with his glance.

"Sorry!" Stan released the foot-throttle. "I just got lost in thoughts, I swear!"

"Stop swearing and keep driving," 'David' ordered. Blather obeyed and they drove steadily two blocks westward exchanging urgings, excuses and meaningless phrases from time to time.

"Where should I go?" Blather asked stopping at the intersection bordering on the realm of trees and bushes.

"Drive up along Madison to the 66th and turn left."

Blather nodded, wondering to himself whether he's willingly driving straight into his grave. The stranger's arguments were reasonable, but the green oasis in the centre of Manhattan was just too dark and deserted at this time-

"Don't miss the turn," 'David' prompted when Stan showed no indications of slowing down.

"Yes, yes, sure," Blather braked down slightly sharper than it was needed and turned on the Transverse road no. 1 running deep under already thinning canopies of the park trees.

"Turn here."

"On the Park road?" the reporter decided to check.

"Yes."

"But it's closed for traffic at night!"

"Trust me, Stan; it should be the least of your concerns at the moment."

"I trust you," Blather agreed, wondering why 'David' makes such a compromising move. The cars were forbidden to enter the Park after 7 PM, and the violator immediately attracted attention of NYPD…

_What if he got everything under control here, just like on that intersection?_ Stan mused. _Well, we'll find it out soon…_ Having switched turn signals in advance, he steered the car towards a wide road which at night time belonged to runners, bicyclists and other fans of fresh air. Stan broke into sweat expecting at any given second to see distinctive flashers of a police car hidden in the bushes, but everything was quiet.

"The patrol will be here in twenty two minutes," 'David' informed him. "We'll make it unless you do something stupid. Drive off the road and shut the engine."

Blather obeyed. He has calmed down somewhat and even started to feel some trust towards his passenger, but still in his thoughts he bid silent farewell to his wife, son and two daughters. Just in case. "Now what?" he asked when the engine died and they sat alone in silence and darkness.

"Tell me, Stan, are you a patriot?"

"Well, I like my country," Stan answered, his heart wringing with fear as he tried to guess the name of the terrorist group 'David' belonged to, and how many wrong answers he is allowed to give before he will be shot.

"Do you believe in the freedom of press and citizens' right for information?" 'David' asked.

"Yes, of course!"

"Are you ready to put everything you have at risk for the sake of telling people the truth?"

Blather gulped nervously. "I assume if I say 'no', you'll kill me?"

"Do you want to say 'no'?"

"I don't know. It's a difficult question. Besides, I _do_ have something to lose-"

"Right. That's exactly the man we need: patient and reasonable and who won't mess things up."

Blather forced himself to chuckle. "You flatter me."

"I don't think so. So what is your answer?" 'David' pressed.

"Do I have a choice?" Despite being scared, Stan's voice sounded venomously.

"Of course you do. It's like two pills, remember? You say 'no', I leave, and you never see me again and remain a Channel Six reporter serving the rest of his work term in the shadows of his more successful colleagues. Or you may say 'yes' and, quite possible, one fine day become a National Headliner Award winner."

Blather gasped at the perspectives opened before him, but his inborn mistrust prevailed. "You'll just get out and leave? You'll leave me alive after everything?"

"What 'everything'?" 'David' inquired. "You don't know who I am or what I wanted to ask you. You won't prove anything; your colleagues will think you try to enhance your reputation, and the police will think that you got drunk and dreamt it all up. If I kill you, that will stir a sensation, but as it is, you are of no danger to us."

"Whom 'us'"?

The stranger grew instantly serious. "Those who care about this country. Those who believe that only upholding the Constitution and civil freedoms will save it. We are numerous, though, I must admit, we generally don't know of one another. That's why you, Stan, should become the engine of our common cause."

"Why me?"

"First, because you love this country. Second, because you were there?"

Blather frowned. "There? I've been to many places-"

"The Capitol. Washington Peace Summit."

A fast-forwarded footage reeled before Stan's mind's eye. The President's speech. The delayed release of peace dove. The rodent incident. And an impenetrable cover of mystery shrouding the events of those several days including the story of The First Chipmunk who vanished as unexpectedly as he appeared.

"Yes, I remember that," he said.

"What do you remember exactly?"

"Some chipmunk almost ruined the ceremony. The security shot him, but he survived. The First Lady personally performed his surgery and the First Daughter nursed him. On that very night, if memory serves me, there was an explosion in a nearby ward. It killed MacMillan, CIA special ops director or something like that. They said it was an accident at first, but then it turned out that someone was going to kidnap or kill the chipmunk, but MacMillan saved him, paying with his life. Basically, that's all I know."

"In that case, you would really want to see this." 'David' said and dropped a flat DVD case on the passenger seat next to Blather.

"What's it?" the reporter asked, looking at the case in awe. It looked like an ordinary blank disk with no markings except branding designations, like all those sold on every self-respecting corner. But Stan couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Truth," 'David' answered promptly. "So, will you help us?"

Stan extended his hand towards the disk, but at the very last moment his suspiciousness got the upper hand. "But why did you come to me?"

"I told you. Because-"

"I remember what you told me!" Blather was overrun with emotions and he didn't even notice himself interrupting the man who had him in sights of his gun. "There were plenty of journalists there!"

'David' shrugged. "Well, we had to start with someone, didn't we?"

"Start?" Blather narrowed his eyes. Now it was his greed speaking. "So, I'm just one of-"

"If you reject our offer, you will be 'just one of'. Just one of grey mass of reporters doomed to speak in their mike whatever they are ordered to. Like I said, you aren't dangerous to us. If you say no, we'll find someone more patriotic. Or more vain. Someone who will seize his chance. People must know the truth, that's what important. We don't really care who will open their eyes, you or Henry Dougherty or else..."

'David's words hit the mark. Mentioning Stan's old friend and rival worked magic on the reporter, and in a blink of an eye the disk was moved from the seat to glove compartment.

"I knew we'll come to agreement," the Midwest native observed with satisfaction. "Take it all very seriously. You can fire a gun of this calibre only once. You should make the shot count."

"I'll do everything I can," the reporter answered. "Though I still don't quite understand why you came to me and not to Jim Hoffman, our regular investigator, for instance. He's got both experience and connections."

"He has," 'David' nodded. "But, just like every other known specialist in the field, he's also got tails. Good luck, Stan. You're our hope now."

"But-" the stunned reporter blurted, but 'David' had already left the car, shut the door and crossed an alley in quick pace, vanishing in the surrounding bushes. Blather was alone. He looked in the direction where 'David' went, then opened the glove container to make sure the disk is there and it wasn't some kind of dream, then lowered his head on the steering wheel. The headache was back, but this time it was pleasant, for it was caused by an urge to act, not by dreary emptiness he had felt before.

The reporter couldn't tell how long he had been sitting there when a flashlight beam hit him in the eyes, and there was a loud and persistent knocking on the driver's door's window. Blather jerked up, almost hitting a rear-view mirror with his head, and lowered the glass. There were coloured blots dancing in his eyes, but he still recognized a dark-blue uniform with a seven-point star of NYPD Auxiliary Police. There were two officers. One was standing right next to the door, his hand clasping a club he was knocking at the window with. Another one stood in ten feet or so, his left hand holding the flashlight directed at Blather, and his right on his holster.

"Good evening, officers," the reporter said the first thing he came up with.

"Your ID, please," the knocking officer commanded. It was a brawny bearded man with heavy features whose short height allowed him not to lean too low to look inside the car. Blather as slowly as required took out his driver's license from his pocket and handed it over. The officer closely examined the photo and meticulously compared it with the original. "No parking allowed here. How long have you been here?" he asked.

"About half an hour," Blather answered honestly.

"So you came here after seven PM?" the policeman queried.

"Yes, officer."

"What are you doing here?"

"Having a rest. I know it's against the rules, I just had some hard day," Blather said, telling absolute truth.

"I see. Sir, please get out of the car."

"Is anything wrong? I-"

"Sir!" the officer repeated, taking a step back and putting his hand on his holster. Blather opened the door and got out of the car with his hands outstretched and palms turned outwards. He knew what was going to happen next, and started to turn his back to the policemen before they commanded him to face the car and put his hands on the roof. The officer didn't like such foresight. He hit Blather's left ankle to make him move his legs further apart, then quickly and fiercely slapped every place where a weapon could be theoretically concealed. "Check inside," he told his partner.

Stan broke into sweat and flinched. The officers noticed that and became even more vigilant. The brawny man's partner, a tall lean blond man with cleanly shaven chin which seemed too massive for his constitution, looked in all the nooks and crannies and surely found a thing to seize on.

"What's on that disk in the glove compartment?"

"Disk?" Blather licked his dry lips. "That's- that's materials! For my programme! I'm a reporter! Channel Six!"

The blond man knitted his brow. "What's his name again, Bob?"

"Blather, Stan."

The blond officer snapped his fingers. "Right, Blather! I remember it sounded like Chevrolet. Channel Six, of course! I know you, you covered the First Chipmunk story!"

"Yes, it was me," the reporter smiled nervously. Having met 'David', any mention of that story made him feverish.

"Well, nice to meet you! Too bad we met under these circumstances. The car rules are very strict in the park, especially after hours."

"Yes, yes, I know!" Stan nodded. "I just- This is my favourite place, a memorable one, and I couldn't help-"

"I see. But I don't remember catching you here before. It's your first time, right?"

"Yes! It's my first! I know the rules!" Blather agreed. Still, his answer made the policeman grew even more suspicious.

"Open your trunk please."

"My trunk? Of course, just a moment..."

The policemen obviously expected to find a dead body or at least a couple of machine guns there, but when they saw the trunk was empty, their mood changed into a confiding one.

"Mister Blather, is everything really alright? Don't you want to report anything? Blackmail, extortion, threats?"

_So caring, come to think of it!_ Blather thought. _They just nailed it. Maybe I should tell them everything? Who knows what that 'David' is really up to. I have the disk, it's a bulletproof evidence!_

And a key to his National Headliner Award.

"No, officers," the reporter shook his head with conviction. "Thank you for caring, but there's nothing criminal about it. Well, except driving along the closed road."

"Well, in that case, you'll have to pay fine," the blond officer spoke in business-like manner. "How much is it, Bob?"

"A solid sum. But I'm out of tickets."

"Really?" the other officer checked his pockets. "You won't believe it, but me too! We have so many offenders you need to carry a roll with you!"

"Out of tickets?" Blather was dumbfounded. "What now then?"

"Well," the brawny man named Bob scratched his chin, "we've got two options. First, we can bring you to the station and process everything there. But that will take too much time, and we still need to check half of the park."

"And what's the other option?"

"The other option? Hmm... You said it's your first offense?"

"Yes, the very first one!"

"What do you think, Jay?"

"I think we can issue a verbal warning."

"Yes, I think that will do it. What do you think, Mister Blather?"

"Well, I-" it took Stan several seconds to gather his thoughts. "I don't know what to say... Thank you! It won't happen again, I promise!"

"Okay, we believe you," Jay winked at the reporter. "I always say you should befriend the press. Maybe they will start to treat us like humans, and not like some robots wearing uniform. I'm not speaking of you personally, Stan, but some of your colleagues- But let's not delve into unpleasantness. Good luck to you!"

"You too!" Blather wished back.

The policemen resumed their walk along the alley. The reporter got inside his car and drove in the opposite direction. He still couldn't believe his luck. It was definitely his day today. First this unexpected story having all the potential to become a nationwide sensation. Then the cops ran out of tickets... Maybe that was it? Maybe he finally caught the wave that would bring him up to the shining summits?

_I wish it were... _Stan thought as he joined the southbound traffic. The other drivers paid no attention to him having no idea there was a true Pandora's Box slowly moving alongside them.


	2. Chapter 1 Trials and Errors

**PART I**

**SENSATIONAL CASE**

**Chapter 1**

**Trials and Errors**

* 1 *

_Day First, night_

It's chilly in New York on a November night. Especially if you are a chipmunk with sweat-drenched fur, wearing pyjamas only and dashing into the cold out of the warm dwelling. This multileveled and multitier hollow was the embodiment of tranquillity and cosiness just a couple of minutes ago. But it took it several seconds to become a cold mountain cave full of dangers. Or rather, the danger. Only one, which made it even more terrifying and-

Chip looked back, but the sound that caught his attention was being produced not by his pursuer but by two dried leaves rubbing against each other, ready to tear off the branch at any moment. Then again, this sound couldn't be anything but. If his adversary decided to follow him, he would hear nothing until the very last second.

_Adversary... Come to think about it..._

The Rescue Ranger shook his head and continued his way into the crown of their age old oak. After many decades its branches entangled thickly and formed a real labyrinth where an accidental stranger could get lost very easily, especially if he wandered at night and was just a few inches, not counting a short tail. But this particular stranger was more adept than met the eye and demonstrated it vividly by jumping from one almost indiscernible in darkness branch to another, steadily approaching his destination with each leap.

Diving under three entangled and unnaturally twisted branches growing in place of several others torn out by one particularly violent storm, Chip crept on his belly to a deep crevice in the tree's bark. Covered by a massive bough, it was absolutely invisible from the outside, thus making a great place to store something which needed to be hidden and kept in secret. It wasn't easily accessible, though, but that was for the better, for it contained a very specific item. So specific that the leader of the Rescue Rangers had no intention to show it to anyone and really wanted it to stay there until the end of time.

But fate, as usual, had plans of its own.

Chip dug up to his very shoulders into a thick layer of decayed leaves he had previously thrown over the cache. He rummaged through a greasy mass impatiently, and with each piece he threw away the rolls of sweat on his forehead grew colder, and his heart pumped so loudly it could probably be heard not only in the surrounding park but even on Staten Island. What if, despite all his efforts, his cache had been found and its contents removed? Could everything be lost? Could he be defenceless in the face of...

His fingers touching a flat rigid surface, the chipmunk felt so relieved he barely felt the pain caused by the plastic box' sharp corner sticking right under his claw. He quickly took the box out of the hole and wiped the sticky dirt off, carefully looking for the slightest signs of damage. But aside from sharp corners, the box' sides were smooth, and a hiss of air filling it the moment he lifted the lid proved that the vacuum created by pumping out eighty five percent of air stayed there, saving the item inside from moisture and corrosion.

Chipmunk put the box on a pile of leaves he had dug out from the hole and removed the item he had hidden there a long time ago hoping to never see it again. Dispersed light of half moon partially hidden by the clouds shone upon a dimly sparking thing resembling some futuristic rifle. The similarity was not accidental for the strange construct was based on a cork-shooting air gun. This time, however, a cork on a thread was replaced with a plastic tube protruding out of the barrel ending with a rubber square, and there was a chunky disk battery which made the weapon look like Thompson machine gun. Chip flipped a discrete switch on the thing's side and heard a low hum resembling a sound produced by transformer kiosks.

_The charge is building up,_ Chip noted and exhaled heavily. Everything was in order. Nobody touched the device in his absence. The secret cache came up to and even exceeded his expectations, although he had some doubts about the chosen place up until the very last moment. The cache was the only participant of his plan able to fail him. The other two participants could never fail, for Chip was absolutely confident about himself, and the other rodent who knew the details would never say anyone anything again...

Chip hanged the 'rifle' on his back and started to go back. He had to descend now, not climb up, but that didn't make things any easier for him. On the contrary, with every step he took his limbs grew numb and his load grew heavier. Chip forced himself to move on with his force of will, telling himself that everything would turn out well and things would return to normal. He swore under his breath cursing his laziness and weak-wiliness that didn't allow him to recover fully from his wound. His voice grew hoarser and his words ruder, but it didn't quite help. For at the very same time he understood more and more clearly that it wasn't about amount of training he devoted all his spare time to. For the very first time in his life Chip felt a true horror, supernatural and irrational. For the first time he was about to meet an enemy and didn't know what to do and how to behave.

He only knew that it was the most important and the hardest battle in his life, and he was about to make a choice between dying and losing everything. The third option was available, but chances were too slim. Slimmer than in a fight with a dozen of Nimnuls and hundred Fat Cats. This time he wasn't up against some cranky professor or the obese cat with exorbitant ego. His today's enemy was faster, stronger, smarter and more ruthless than any living rodent. Which wasn't surprising given the amount of time, efforts and millions of dollars spent to create him.

Or rather, her.

"I'm sorry, Gadget," Chip whispered coming to the window of their bedroom but then reprimanded himself: _Forget it! It's for her own sake! And for that matter, there's no Gadget here. There is only you and the MAP!_

Having reminded himself about it, Chip took his 'Tommy gun' in his arms and dived into the darkness headfirst. Rolling across the floor, he pressed his back to the bed standing right across the window and froze, regaining his breath and listening intently to the frightening and natural silence enshrouding the entire HQ.

* 2 *

That's exactly what woke him tonight. Not sounds but the lack of those. And of something else. He didn't get it at once, but when he rolled over to his other side he saw everything.

Or rather, nothing, for the other half of the bed was empty.

Chip sat up abruptly and looked around. His wife was not in the room. He usually heard her getting up but this time he missed her leaving. Either he slept too soundly, or she tried hard not to disturb him. Chip took pride in his keenness, but had no doubts she could do it taking her training into account.

_Training..._

The chipmunk shuddered but instantly tried hard to dismiss the thought of Gadget leaving to receive orders to assassinate another prominent political figure. She wasn't the Mouse Assassin Project anymore and she never will be.

_And what if she will? What if-_

_Stop it!_ Chip scolded himself. _There can be millions of reasons including a dozen of outrageously banal. She just went to refresh herself and will come back soon enough._

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, but sleep wasn't coming.

Gadget wasn't coming, too.

_Come on, where is she? _Chip grew nervous again. _Maybe something happened? Maybe she's sick? Those carrot-cheese cutlets did taste a bit strangely._

Chip massaged his belly, but felt nothing unpleasant. Gadget probably just kept them on fire a bit longer than needed. Could have been worse... Chipmunk couldn't help but smile recalling her first timid attempt to cook up some of Monterey's recipes. It took quite some time for ait to clean up and the gas masks to become unneeded again. He joked that it was her training in that secret laboratory showing. Gadget didn't like her husband's joke and promised to recall everything they had taught her there and work him up and down thoroughly if he said something like that again. Her words sounded somewhat ambiguously and Chip duly noted that. This time his joke was met much more warmly and even had some pleasant follow-up-

_Ohmigosh! Could it be?_

Chip threw his blanket off to the floor and ran out into the corridor, but froze on the threshold for there was no reason to run any further. He could already see that there were no light in bathroom and nobody was there. As well as on the whole upper floor for that matter.

Chip returned to bedroom and went out on the balcony. He surmised that Gadget would want to breathe some fresh air after all that. But she was neither on the observatory platform nor on the lower veranda, and chipmunk began shuddering not because of cold alone...

_How could I not think about that?!_

Chip returned to the HQ and went down to the living room. A long time ago there was only one stairwell leading down to the lower floor, because there was nothing but the kitchen and his and Dale's room which the red-nosed chipmunk shared with Foxglove now. As the time went by and the team grew, the Headquarter needed a considerable reconstruction, after which they added an open-air observatory, additional landing pad for the now totally lost Rangerplane, and a parabolic antenna to intercept police radio frequencies, access internet, and view a larger TV programme selection. But the main changes were made inside, where Sparky's laboratory, Foxglove's 'magic tent' and autonomous medical station ran by Tammy and equipped with the most advanced devices built by Gadget were built. The medical station had already played a fundamental role in Chip's and Gadget's life. So Chip went there, hoping the medical equipment would endow their family with another wonderful discovery.

Unlike the rest of the HQ, the lights were on in the second floor's western 'medical' wing. Chip's heart was already beating like a drum, but then it started pounding so hard it seemed his ribs would break. He understood everything right. He's on the right track. Just a few steps more and-

As soon as he put his foot down on the last step, a door marked with a large medical cross opened letting Gadget out into a small antechamber. She looked straight ahead, biting her lower lip and thoughtfully fingering her nightgown's lace collar, and she noticed her husband standing just a couple of inches away only when she turned around to close the door. She gave a start making her rich hair rock and froze, looking at him a little frightened and, it seemed to Chip, a little guilty.

_Like a criminal caught over a dead body with a smoking gun in his hand..._

"You aren't asleep, Chip? I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you up."

Her tender voice made Chip feel guilty to come up with such analogy even for a second. _Professional decease, no doubt, _he thought. _I definitely need vacation. But enough of self-torture for now..._

"Gadget, are you... Are you okay? Is sickness heavy? I can bring something."

"No, dear, everything's fine. Why did you-" Gadget stopped short as her husband's standing ears fell down and sincere disappointment appeared in his eyes. "Oh, I see..."

She slammed the door too loudly as for Chip. But she had all the reasons to do so.

"Forgive me," he asked stepping up and touching her hand. "I'm glad you are alright, I just... well..."

"Say nothing, I understand everything," the mouse answered, her voice trembling a little.

Chip noticed it, took her by her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Are you really alright? You don't need a doctor?"

"No, no! I'm fine, really."

"Why did you go there, then?" Chip nodded at the medical station door.

"Oh, I..." Gadget glanced at the red cross. "Tammy complained about one of the monitors having problems, so I decided to..."

"But why at this time of night?" Chip raised his left brow which if translated into a scale used by United States Department of Homeland Security meant 'blue' threat level.

"Well, I didn't sleep well... Then again, it's dangerous to have broken appliances at home."

"And? Did you fix it?"

"Of course! Just some loose contact in a socket. But now everything's in order!"

"I don't doubt it for a second. You could tell me, though, I think I'd managed some contact in a socket..."

"Here we go again. Trust me, Chip, I know how to handle electric devices."

"Of course you do. You are the smartest girl in the world!" Chip tenderly moved his fingers along her thick golden hair. It had grown fully by now and looked even better than before; probably because she combed it slightly sideways, and a fringe starting from her left temple made her features more pronounced. It wasn't really needed since Gadget was fascinating even with no hair at all. But this way the hair covered a surgical stitch at the base of her left ear better. As the time went by, Gadget became increasingly bothered with the stitch. At least that was Chip's impression. "Well, if the monitor is alright and there's nothing to worry about anymore..."

"Yes, honey, nothing at all!" Gadget caressed her husband's cheek and kissed his nose. "Go to bed and have a rest. I'll work a little more."

She kissed him again and went upstairs. Chip followed her with his eyes, and when her steps subsided he approached the door and put his hand on the knob...

And froze realizing what exactly he was about to do.

Chip at his hand on the doorknob as though it was some alien organism. After some hesitation he put his hand away, wiped it off his pyjamas to be on the safe side, and went upstairs, but stopped a couple of steps away from the top.

If she really had fixed the monitor, she should have brought her instruments along. But when she came out she carried nothing.

_Come on, that's stupid..._

Is it?

Chip returned to the medical station and this time the door didn't stop him. Wincing at the strong smell of medicine hitting his nostrils, he flipped the light switch and looked about the room. There were seven beds separated by translucent pieces of plastic bags along the right wall. Subnotebook put on two props for better ventilation and connected to the blood analyzer stood on the left. Further into the room there stood a laboratory table with a microscope and a stand with two cell phone LCD's. Apparently, Tammy complained about one of them.

Chip had been putting off inviting her to join their team for as long as he could, but finally yielded to his friends' pressure, especially Gadget's, the team's previous regular medic. He personally had no problems with it, but when Gadget noted reasonably that the team needs someone able to discern between a real leg fracture and a simulated one, he gave up. After Tammy moved to HQ, at first he avoided staying in the same room with her for a long time, let alone in private, but now he could not imagine their team without her. She still called him 'Chipper' but she did it for the sake of old memories only for she had understood long ago that only one female existed for Chip in this world. Tammy reconciled with the fact and wanted no more from him than good friendship. It remained that way before Gadget's disappearance, during her absence, and, of course, after her return, and Tammy was sincerely happy that Gadget returned from the other side and that everything was alright in her and Chip's family life...

_Was it?_

Chip glanced at the computer's black screen and sighed silently. By rodent standards they had been married for a very long time already, but their marriage got no physical embodiment yet so to speak. Chip began to suspect that the genetic analyzer built by Gadget had malfunctioned, or maybe she made a mistake while inputting binary coded data leading to unforeseen consequences. But series of repeated tests confirmed the initial result which was relieving but at the same time made Chip doubt his own capabilities...

Shuddering involuntarily, the chipmunk came to his senses, recalled why he came here in the first place, and went to the monitors. A single glance on the stand and the tracks it left on a thin layer of dust on the floor was enough to see that it had been moved recently. Since Chip didn't do, then it was Gadget, for they had been alone in HQ for almost a week now. Although lately they handed the major part of crime fighting workload off to several other Rangers-like vigilante groups, the team's forced hiatus lasting almost a year when Gadget was considered dead and then Chip was recovering in Washington after his injuries was quite impactful, and much work had to be done from scratch. No matter how you look at it, but after many years of crime fighting Rescue Rangers still remained irreplaceable. That's why Dale and Foxglove temporarily moved to Brooklyn to assist Waterfront Guard Service, WaGuS for short — a voluntary harbour-based militia who took upon themselves fighting against smuggling, thefts from port storages, and unlawful exports of rare plants and animals which was the business of humans and animals alike.

Monterey Jack, Zipper, Sparky and Tammy had a much more important task. They went to Washington, DC, in another attempt to find information about Black Table — an organization so powerful that nobody knew anything about it before the MAP incident, and even after the commotion in Washington it was mentioned in top secret materials only. Rescue Rangers tried several times to find out how the investigation proceeded, but couldn't find anything substantial. Even WikiLeaks, the largest network storage of secret documents uncovered by anonymous truth seekers, contained no mentions of Black Table, which meant the materials of this case were guarded much closer than archive about Norton Nimnul.

It could seem that nobody was working on the case at all, but Rescue Rangers knew better. They knew that it was the only way to fight such an adversary. They understood perfectly that this enemy was many times more dangerous than all the criminals they had met before, and they swore not to let it go until they were sure Black Table was no more. As paradoxical as it might seem, not being subject to threats or corruption, the Rescue Rangers were the only ones the world could truly rely on in this fight...

_I wish it were the hardest of my problems..._ Chip thought and sighed heavily. He looked behind the stand and touched a plug connected to the monitor. It was different from three others owing to complete absence of dust. It had been disconnected, examined and apparently disassembled using a cross-point screwdriver, pliers and a knife to cut off a worn-out coating. Chip found these three tools along with twelve in the black casing on the edge of the nearest table. They were put into wrong sockets and stood out prominently.

_That's not Gadget's style. No matter what, her tools are always in order..._

On the other hand, was it any wonder that she put the tools into wrong sockets when she had forgotten to take the whole toolbox with her?

But why is he so sure she had forgotten it? Maybe she left it here on purpose to have it hand when something broke down again?

No, it's more likely that she forgot them. But not because she was nervous, but because she had another brilliant insight, and she rushed to incarnate it in blueprint or metal. She was leaving the medical station in haste and thoughts for a reason.

Chip weighed the black toolbox on his palm, and a cunning smile appeared on his lips. Nothing ever happens by itself. Practice makes perfect and everything else for that matter.

It's hard to say what Chip would have done if he had known what would happen next. But in spite of his analytic abilities he could not predict the future. That's why he went upstairs casually, singing a musical theme from the TV show based on Agatha Christie's novels and tossing the toolbox from hand to hand. In other words, he wasn't attempting to conceal his approach at all, but still Gadget noticed him only when he put the toolbox on the blueprint right in front of her.

"Oh! What's that?" Gadget exclaimed emerging from her creative trance.

"Your tools. You forgot them in the medical station."

"Forgot them? Me?" Gadget looked at the box in bewilderment. "Actually, I left them there on purpose, in case Tammy has something else broken down. Not her, but her equipment, I mean."

"Oh, I see," Chip slapped his forehead. "Too much vigilance on my part then. Forgive an old fool."

"I forgive you," Gadget said with a smile. "Then again, it's probably better this way. You never know when you need some particular tool and the more of them you have, the more chances there are that the one you need is nearby. Thanks for your efforts!"

Chip smiled. "You're always welcome." He nodded at the blueprint. "What's this thing for? I mean, apart from rotating around transversal axis and transferring torque moment from input shaft to the output one."

Gadget looked at the blueprint in distrust. At first glance it looked like an evacuation plan for a labyrinth built by a mad architect. But there was no cheating on Chip's side, because she had written no explanatory comments on it yet, and the general table of references was covered by another sheet. So when she turned back to Chip, her eyes were shining with excitement.

"Congrats, Chip! Your progress is astonishing!"

"Well, I've always been a fast learner. And besides, I had the most beautiful teacher in the world!"

"And you paid far more attention to the teacher then the subject," Gadget observed with a joyful reproach.

"Guilty," Chip admitted, removing a loose lock from her wife's forehead. "My only excuse is that anyone would have done it in my place."

"You'll have much better excuse if you tell me what it is," it was obvious from Gadget's voice that she liked Chip's answer and was inviting him for a game. That was reassuring.

"Well, I can surely try, but I'm afraid I'll just waste your time. I'm sure you'll do it faster and more correctly."

"Listen up, then."

Gadget rose and went to a low table in the corner occupied by a large metallic cylinder lying on its side on a massive base. Ventilation grates were cut in its walls, and its front side was covered with a sparkling polished lid with a thick metallic shank with circular cross-section protruding outward. A tachometer was attached to the shank's end. Another tachometer, attached to the input shaft according to the blueprint, could be seen in the rear. The cylinder was enfolded by metallic hoop with slits, one of which held a plank with a levelling screw attached to a dynamometer hanging from a wide girder.

Chip had seen all these devices many times already, so he just barely glanced over them and turned his attention to Gadget sorting out wires joining the cylinder with some device on a nearby lathe. Much to Chip's liking, it was obscured by Gadget's elegant figure. As usual, she was going to work for 'just a little bit', so she didn't change into her everyday overalls and remained in her nightgown. She wore her goggles though, but it was even better. He wouldn't have to ask her to put them on so that he could take them off later...

"Chip!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Is it me having memory issues or were you sincerely interested in my supervariator?"

"Supervariator? So that's what that thing on the blueprint is called. Although it's somewhat wider than on the blueprint."

"That's because there's no electric engine on the blueprint which I connected to my supervariator to test it. But supervariator itself is comparatively little indeed, look...! Chip! Look at supervariator, not at me, or you'll bore a hole in me soon!"

"Sorry, can't help it. I'm so curious to know what device is standing behind you that—"

"Oh, so that's what this is all about!" Gadget laughed. "Okay, my ready witted dodger, look!" She stepped aside, allowing Chip to see a digital metering device with shining red zeros on its panel.

"And this must be an amperemeter," Chip proclaimed.

"It is," Gadget confirmed. "You knew it or deduced it?"

"A little bit of both," Chip answered vaguely.

"In that case could you tell me what it is for?"

"For measuring of current!" Chip proclaimed. It was a suitable moment for a loud crack of heels, but Chip knew from past experience that it's very painful to do with bare feet.

Gadget nodded. "It's logical, but no more than that. What is it for now?"

"Gadget, it's two in the morning. What's the point?"

"But still?"

"Alright," Chip conceded. "Amperemeter is used to measure current strength. It's connected to the electric engine. Electric engine runs on current. You want to measure the amount of current consumed by the engine."

"Not quite. Torsion torque."

"Torsion torque? You mean, measure it? With amperemeter...? Uhm, well, it's brilliant! It's—"

"Nonsense!" Gadget interrupted him. "Surely it's impossible to measure torsion torque with amperemeter. But by measuring current strength and engine axle rotation velocity with tachometer and varying them we, knowing that other parameters like axle slope angle and engine power remain constant, are able to control torsion torque variations depending on the previous two parameters. From there we'll get the engine's training characteristics which allow us to assess the supervariator's efficiency factor."

"Now I get it," Chip said with a smile. Gadget softened a bit but not quite enough to proceed to the next stage. He knew her well enough and understood she required a special approach. It wasn't her flaw; quite the contrary, it added a special charm to their relationship only two of them were aware of. Chip loved and cherished her for that and could blame only himself for having overdone with flattery and needing to do it all over again. But Gadget's company never burdened him, so he quickly continued. "There is another couple of instruments on the testing rig, and, if I understand it correctly, it is the testing rig. The second tachometer is obviously needed to measure the velocity of rotation of the output shaft, which, as far as I know, is needed to compute the efficiency. But I have absolutely no idea what that dynamometer is for."

Chip used the style close to Gadget's manner of speech deliberately, carefully balancing academic insipidness with ostentatious pomposity. If there were too much of the first, Gadget could think that her husband's interest is insincere and he kept up the conversation for the sake of politeness only. If there were too much of the second, she would suspect he was mocking her. That could lead to even less pleasant consequences, that's why Chip said 'no idea what that dynamometer is for', not 'no idea what that dynamometer greater purpose is', although he really wanted to. Surely Gadget wasn't devoid of sense of humour, and Chip still felt warmth remembering how he managed to make her laugh by distorting names of medical drugs. But this case was different, and it demanded another, subtler approach. And a smile appearing on the inventor's lips was the best and the most prominent confirmation of it.

"Oh, the dynamometer is the most interesting part! Not by itself, I mean, because there's nothing interesting in a dynamometer as such. The possible measurements are interesting, that is torque of charging brake which can be adjusted with this screw in order to achieve..."

Chip barely suppressed a huge sigh of relief. Gadget was in good mood again, her eyes were shining with excitement and words were pouring out in rapid succession. Two minute later Chip could understand only half of them, but he told himself he wouldn't stop his wife until he was able to discern separate words.

He regularly trained this way. Gadget knew her husband well enough to feel whether he was really listening or just pretending in order not to interrupt her, and she stopped when she thought she reached this threshold. Chip tried to persuade her not to do it, telling her that even if he didn't understand something right away he would surely ask her later or look it up on his own and he liked to hear her voice anyway. Gadget countered she didn't like to feel herself some kind of torturer. Twice the following escalation of mutual politeness and self-sacrifice almost led to a serious conflict, but in both cases they managed to stop in time. Knowing that the road to peace and harmony lay through self-perfection, Chip went deep into technical vocabularies and soon his ears and brain learned to digest such multilayered constructs as 'hypersonic air-breathing ramjet propulsion engine's inner section full-length widening'. And still remember that it all began with his question about a vacuum cleaner...

"...which will allow us to prove that our variator is indeed progressive and with soft dependence of rotational rate from the output resistance moment!" Gadget proclaimed victoriously, caught her breath and looked at Chip. "Don't tell me you understood everything!"

"Well..." Chip scratched his head loudly ruffling his fur already tousled from the sleep. "I discerned nine words out of ten and guessed the rest. I think I can repeat eight of ten and retell the rest in my own words. What do you think?"

"Two things. First, you still have much room for improvement. Second. I'm really happy for you!"

"I'm happy you're happy." Chip said softly coming up to Gadget and embracing her shoulders. "I think I know the way to make you even happier tonight..." he added in a subtle whisper and fell silent waiting for Gadget's move.

His expectations came true. Gadget leaned towards him. "I know it, too," she whispered.

Chip grew languid, tipped his head to the side and opened his mouth. But it turned out he did it prematurely, for Gadget kissed him on his nose and said with previous ardour: "Give me that handle!"

"What...?" the bewildered chipmunk looked in that direction and saw a thick and long tube with a plastic handle on one end and a vertical plank with two screw slits on another. "What do we need it for?"

"What for? To test if our supervariator conforms to requirements to be considered progressive! I've just said it!"

"Oh, erhm..." Chip said weighing the handle on his paw. "Actually I thought you were talking in general, not meaning tonight, so I—"

"Why delay it if we aren't both asleep?"

Gadget took the handle from his hands and started screwing it to the vertical clamp right behind the charging brake's jaws using a screwdriver taken from a nearby workbench. Chip came up to her from behind, gently put his paws on her shoulders, then slightly pressed his thumbs into her skin around the base of her neck and started performing slow rotary motions.

Gadget giggled. "Chip, what're you doing?"

"What I always do."

"I see but it's not the best time."

"You sure?" he whispered leaning forward, his nose touching the very edge of her ear.

"Sure," Gadget snickered when her husband's shaggy and tickling nose reached the base of her ear and moved down towards one of her heads most sensitive spots. "Come on, Chip, enough of that."

"You're absolutely right," Chip mumbled, his lips pressed to her skin revealed when his breath moved her hair aside. "Enough for today. You work too much as it is."

"Chip—"

"No, I mean it. During the night you've already repaired the monitor at the medical station, given me a lecture about gear-ratios and dished springs, and attached the lever finishing the rig for the future testing of supervariator. I think it's the right time to take a break. After all, we rarely had been on our own. Much less then the honeymoon we ought to have."

"Yes, you're probably right, but I'm already behind schedule so—"

Chip's fingers stopped massaging his wife's neck.

"Behind schedule?" Chip bent forward to see Gadget's face. "What schedule are you talking about?"

"The schedule of my project for PhD in Automotive Engineering thesis. Have you forgot?"

"Excuse me, Gadget, but it's the very first time I hear about it."

The mouse perked up her ears in surprise. "What? Haven't I told you? I thought I should have. Although I think at that moment I came up with the idea to build the variator using planetary scheme and I decided to test it, and then I probably forgot, I am sorry."

"It's okay!" Chip reassured her quickly. "I understand you perfectly. I forget everything, too, when I get carried away by something. It's just so unexpected. After all, you already have two doctorates and—"

"Are you implying I've had enough?" Gadget's voice grew very dry.

"No, of course not! I didn't mean it. It's just, well, there's no need to be so hasty, so fanatical about it..."

Even before finishing the phrase Chip regretted about it deeply. But a word spoken is past recalling. Gadget's eyes glared up ominously, and her nose seemed twice as large because of her widened nostrils.

"Fanatical, you say? And how long have you treated my hobby that way?"

Just two careless and badly thought-out phrases, and Chip was already facing the element which had always scared, scares now and will scare men with its wildness and unpredictability — female logic armed with arguable the most dangerous weapon in the world: questions you can answer neither positively nor negatively, for both these options are wrong.

"No, Gadget, wait, you got it wrong," Chip tried to calm her down.

"Sure I am," Gadget said in that kind of absolutely flat and colourless voice which lawyers use when they read a dead man's will to his relatives. "I get everything wrong. My lot is blueprints and levers, I'm no match for the chosen few."

She resumed attaching the lever and the screwdriver in her hand was moving just a little bit faster than before. But it was only an illusion; a cocoon which hid emotions seething inside her like a lid on a boiling pan which you need to lift carefully so that it won't fly away and you won't get burned with hot steam. Chip was acute enough to understand it but, however paradoxical it might seem, too clever to do the right thing.

"Gadget, what are you talking about? I'm just worrying about you."

His words were correct and sincere. His voice was calm and soft. His tone reserved. Each of those elements, even taken separately, can solve any conflict, and together they can do miracles. But not in all cases and, unfortunately, not in this case.

"About me? Sure?" Gadget inquired ironically and reached for the second screw, shaking off Chip's paws from her shoulders in the process. "Or maybe about somebody else? Like yourself?"

"What do you mean, my dear?" Chip asked, dumbfounded by her answer which seemed totally inadequate for him. He was partially correct, for his words and gestures were perfectly logical, but at the same time they were absolutely wrong. He still considered Gadget a smart, intelligent and rational being. But now it wasn't the case. Right now she was nervy and bristled up like any other female whose territory was threatened by an alien.

"What do I mean?" Gadget turned to Chip. "I mean everything! But yeah, right, sorry, I forgot it's all strange to you. You didn't hear me telling you about my thesis, you ignored all my explanations..."

Chip froze with his mouth opened for an answer. Gadget's seemingly incidental phrase, which absolutely contradicted her previous acknowledgement that she had forgotten to tell Chip about her thesis, threw him completely off balance. Now he had to recapture the lost positions and acquit himself from groundless accusations before continuing. He had to do it fast, ideally immediately, while this moment was fresh in their memory and before it became a starting point for other far-fetching conclusions and accusations accumulating like a tight clew of thread which would be very difficult to untangle.

"No, Gadget, wait! You've said yourself that—"

"Yes, I said! I said a lot of things! But do my words mean anything? Big deal! Another flow of consciousness and technical terms! Who cares that this is the future of the automobile industry?" Gadget nodded at the device behind her. "What is this for if I have two doctorates already? What is this haste, these efforts, these pains for? In the name of what? Not in the name of the third diploma on the wall, Chip, that's for sure! But whom am I telling it? Who is interested in all these calculations with numbers and percent of engines efficiency gain, of natural resources saved this way, of greenhouse gases emission reduction? Even the tiniest lowering of engine revs along with preservation of the maximum moment for these revs provides a substantial gain, not to mention a hybrid flywheel-type drive allowing saving phenomenal amounts of energy and thus of fuel..."

Chip had what to counter all this with. Even more so, he was practically bursting with words welling inside him. But in order to say them he needed a window of opportunity to add at least a couple of his own phrases, which unfortunately wasn't possible at the moment. This cyclone of passion could be fought with equally powerful anticyclone only.

There were plenty of options. For instance, Chip could turn around and go to the kitchen, knocking Gadget off the track to the abyss. His absence would either allow the mouse to blow her steam off and digress, or force her to follow him, and the change of scenery makes for calming the passions down...

He could create another important problem out of nowhere, like, drop a hammer on his foot and pretend to feel unearthly pain and suffering, becoming for his wife not an enemy requiring a fierce fight but a victim in need of pity and compassion, and calling for her other irrational but more creative instincts...

He could rise above the moment and say something farcically poetic like "Have you ever noticed the harmony of tungsten thread oscillating in vacuum?" Or he could show total technical incompetence and propose a hypothesis of wave-particle dualism of mathematical pendulum , thus discharging the tension better than any lightning rod...

Finally, he could do something stunningly bold like grasping Gadget's shoulders, tugging her to himself and press his lips to hers tightly, keeping her there and not minding her gradually receding resistance...

Chip did nothing like that. Not because of his extreme rationalism though, but because of lack of rationalism and inability to ascend to its next level. Or next layer, if you prefer. The layer of rational irrationality. That's why Chip patiently waited until Gadget said everything, exhausted and, more importantly, calmed at least a little and became more receptive to what he was going to tell her.

And he made an error again. His tactics were very effective but only under certain conditions. Or, rather, until a certain moment. Until angry words stop being a way to vent negative emotions and become a way to accumulate and multiply them. Or, in a language of Gadget's dear motors, until the hybrid engine's flywheel stops driving the wheels and starts accumulating energy. In both cases flywheel is rotating so it's hard to tell one mode from another at first glance, especially if you miss the transition point. That's exactly what happened to Chip that night.

"Gadget. my love," he began when Gadget abruptly stopped her unprovoked angry tirade and resumed installing the lever. "I understand everything better than it may seem..."

It was a bad phrase, for the object of critique wasn't explicitly designated which opened the way for various interpretations. Chip's words could be considered his repentance that he didn't make enough efforts to show how close and dear his wife's problems are to him. Or they could be understood as a hint that Gadget was unable to see and appreciate his attentiveness and understanding. Chip meant the former. Nervy Gadget saw the latter...

"...I know how important this is for you. I know you can't do without it, I know it gives you strength and inspiration to live on. That you are happy doing it. And trust me, when you are happy, I am happy, too. You need it, but I need you, too..."

Another miss. From Chip's point of view his last phrase was a comparison equating two parts. But for Gadget it sounded like opposition, and instead of equality symbol she saw an exclusive or there...

"...I love you as you are..."

For one — declaration of love. For another — hint at flaws...

"...and will always love you, against all odds. I've told you that, remember...?"

For one — reminder about the most important day in their lives. For another — blame for forgetfulness...

"...And I also told you that if you married me I'd be luckiest guy in the world. And it's true, I swear. I cherish every day I spend with you, every single minute. And I miss you when you are not around. Believe me!"

For one — request to believe. For another — the sign that the first is full of doubts...

"...I have nothing to complain about. I have true friends, I do what I love doing, and I'm married to the most beautiful and clever girl in the world. There's just one thing left. Those who would continue my cause, our cause, the Rescue Rangers' cause. I really like to hear you hammer knocking and your welder buzzing, but I would very much like to hear children laughing in our Headquarters. Our children, Gadget. You would like it too, wouldn't you?"

Chipmunk expected that combining in a single sentence the sounds of Gadget working and children's laughter would be a good excuse to address the main issue; and that it was a good way to switch the focus from Gadget's present activity to his reasons of coming here in the first place. It would have worked at any other time, but not this one. Presently Gadget interpreted Chip's words as a hint that she traded her family life for inventing and that her mechanical creations were substitutes of her biological children. When combined with everything Chip had previously said and a pile of other reasons no male ever could fathom it formed an unspeakable explosive mixture.

Some unbiased outside observer would surely consider her train of thought inconsistent, and her analogies far-fetched. And, frankly, it was true. That's how many family quarrels arise, when a tenderly loving couple after several minutes turn into fierce opponents and later can't explain how it all happened. Much depends on the couple here, on their self-control and ability to stop in time. Or, in this particular case, to start in time. Had Gadget yelled with all her might, had she said the rudest words she knew, had she crushed Chip with the mightiest torrent of insults, complaints, labels and illogic unmethodical and mutually contradicting accusations, everything would have turned out fine in the end.

But she didn't bulge. She restrained herself when she mustn't have, and did the thing she should have never done. After all, being the brilliant inventor with extremely high intellectual potential, she should have known that every flywheel, even the strongest one, can accumulate only certain amount energy, after which it gets blown into pieces under the action of inner tension, destroying everything in its wake…

But she didn't release the energy welled up inside her, and she didn't reveal she's on the verge of breakdown. She just clenched her teeth tighter, put her goggles down on her eyes and said plainly: "I need to work."

"What…?" Chip blinked not knowing how his words could cause such a response. "But, Gadget, I… I don't understand, tell me… Is something wrong? What's going on here?!"

He had to shout the last question to overcome the growing hum of started electric engine. The protruding output shaft with figured notch to connect to the chassis started rotating, turning into a smooth cylinder. The hands of tachometer and dynamometer shot upwards. Gadget switched the variator into the next gear intently watching the instruments and paying no attention to Chip. That is, Chip thought she was paying no attention to him, while she actually heard his shouts and assessed them. Unfortunately, she thought them to be another verbal attack from his side, so she pressed her lips firmly and moved the lever further, letting Chip yell whatever he pleased.

"Gadget! Gadget! Listen to me! Hear me out! Come on, turn this thing off…! GADGET! STOP! GROUNDING!"

The last Chip's phrase was about a contact lying on the floor which should have been plugged into a nearby wall socket connected to a wire which ran along the tree trunk and went into the ground. Chip spent enough time in the workshop to know the dangers of working with a powerful ungrounded electric device. That's why when Gadget didn't react and reached for the lever again he knew he had to act. "WATCH OUT!" he yelled again running towards her with his arm outstretched to push her out of the danger zone.

He came just a bit too late. Gadget turned to look at the dynamometer, caught an abrupt movement in her direction with a corner of her eye, recoiled instinctively, and her paw missed the lever and touched the engine casing. A loud electric crack was heard, every single hair and fur strand on her body stood upright, and her disproportionately enlarged eyes and involuntarily distorted mouth formed a strange expression of surprise and mockery which stayed on her face the whole time she flew across the workshop like a leaf carried by the wind. Fortunately no boxes, worktables nor unfinished devices happened on her way, and she fell flat on the floor with her arms and legs spread. Chip hit the engine's stop button thankfully made of plastic and darted towards her.

"GADGET! OHMIGOSH! GADGET!" he shouted lifting up her head and checking her pulse. She stirred and opened her eyes, and Chip noted her strangely small pupils…

_That's nothing, they just narrowed too fast in the bright light._

"Gadget, dear, are you okay? Where does it hurt? Please, say something… Don't get up, I'll carry you—"

But Gadget not just ignored her husband's words. She did exactly the opposite: she got up in one fluid motion and went to the silent test rig.

"I turned it off for safety's sake," Chip explained. "You forgot to ground it. I shouted, but you didn't hear."

He fell silent, waiting for her answer, but Gadget continued to look at the supervariator as if she saw it for the first time and didn't know what it was and what was its purpose.

_She didn't recognize us then, too…_

"Gadget, you—" Chip stopped short as Gadget picked up a large and heavy wrench from the nearby table. "Gadget, please, you should lie down. Let me take you to the medical room. You don't have to repair anything now—"

For the first time tonight Gadget agreed with him completely. But it didn't make things any easier.

"What are you— HEY!" Chip exclaimed when Gadget hit the rig with the wrench breaking away a tachometer which barely missed his ear. "Gadget! What are you— WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! STOP IT!"

But Gadget didn't stop methodically and purposefully destroying her supervariator. The wrench in her hands rose and fell on the rig rhythmically, breaking off one part after another. The output shaft's tachometer was followed by the rest of the instruments which were not fastened strongly enough to survive the wrench's impact and soon ended up in various workshop's corners. The adaptivity control lever and charging brake jaws followed suit, one of the latter also just barely missing Chip's head. But this time he didn't move at all, pinned down to the floor by a guess which hit him stronger than any electrical current.

_It's not Gadget._

Narrowed pupils. No reaction to the outside stimuli. Craving for destruction. And the parts flying in all the directions just like Rescue Rangers did when they happened to stand in the way of the Mouse Assassin Project going for a kill.

Everything was the same. And if you consider that it started after powerful electric shock, no doubts remained. The thing that Chip had been afraid of all this time finally happened. During the events in Washington the neurochip wasn't destroyed, just disabled temporarily. Now the sleeper awakened.

So he needed to make him fall asleep again, this time once and for all.

Wasting not a second more, Chip ran out of the workshop and dashed out of the HQ chased by din and clatter. As he was running through the front door, Chip noted he was feeling not only fear and determination, but also relief. All this time he knew it could happen and was getting ready for it. It happened, just like he predicted. And he was ready…

* 3 *

...But he didn't like this silence very much.

According to his calculations, it would take Gadget at least half an hour to crush all the devices in her workshop. His roundtrip took much less time and the lack of any sounds meant that he either underestimated his wife's abilities or she switched to a different object…

_OHMIGOSH!_

Chip went through all the ways he knew to reach the capital. Rescue Rangers vessels were not an option. The Wing went with the Monterey's squad and was in Washington now. Dale and Foxglove took the Rangermobile. Only gyrotank remained which couldn't reach the capital by itself. But it could easily reach the airport or a bus station…

_I need to get in touch with Monty and his squad immediately! They must go to the White House and… do something! Raise the fire alarm or whatever, that would be enough to have the President and his family moved to the special bunker where even the mouse wouldn't get. Gadget told me that several of her predecessors were used to locate and eliminate the security breaches… But she knows it, too! In any case, I should call Washington; someone definitely must be keeping watch…_

So he needed to reach the cell phone. The team had four of those, but three were the part of equipment of the three main vehicles in case they would have to split for a long period of time. The phones were considered totally obsolete by human standards, but they were fully functional, and it was enough for the Rangers. In contrast to the phones which were about to be recycled soon anyway, four 'clean' SIM cards were acquired and activated in a not quite legal manner. But the advantage of capability for instantaneous communication justified the means, especially since Gadget and Sparky managed to teach the phones to understand all four GSM ranges used in the world which allowed to coordinate actions on basically global scale. Of course, funding the accounts was still a problem, so the phones were used only in emergencies, and this was definitely one of those.

_But what if she's still here? Who knows what instructions the neurochip can issue after two short circuits. What if she has a different target this time? Another leader? The leader we thought of at first?_

_Well, that's even for the better. Then she is still here somewhere. But I still need to contact the others. Yes, I should call Dale and Foxglove, too. I wish Foxy and her sonar were here now…_

It would be logical to warn the friends first and search the Headquarters then. Had the phone been installed in some isolated communications room, Chip would have done just that. But the phone was in the living room, and probability to encounter MAP there was close to one.

_Well, what must be, must be, as they say…_

Chipmunk lay prone on the floor and carefully peeked from behind the bed leg. There was nobody in the corridor. That is, he could see nobody. He could see clothing dumped out from their mutual wardrobe in the corner and scattered on the floor, though.

_I wonder what's that for? Her hate towards machinery was replaced with the hate towards clothing? Or she thought it was a bad form to kill the President wearing nightgown? Or the chip burnt completely and she went totally nuts? That electric shock was quite—_

Chip didn't have time to thought it out fully for a loud knocking sounded from the depth of the HQ. Or maybe it just seemed loud because of the night silence and Chip's hearing becoming keener in the dark. That's why the Ranger couldn't tell what has fallen. It could be either a small metal box or a large bookcase, though the latter was even more probable.

Chip went into the corridor carefully and headed towards the stairs down, holding the weapon in front of him and feeling like a character from one of those 3-D action games. Dale, unsurprisingly, was a great fan of those, while Chip considered them silly and even harmful for they secretly instilled conviction that clashes with enemies were a simple matter. Also a wild flickering of colors on the screen made you addicted to fast change of images and unable to calm down and focus on exploring the surroundings relying not only on your eyes and ears like during the game but also on all other senses, like smell…

No, smell was a bad example. It could help him to detect Gadget from the safe distance if they were in some different unfamiliar place but not in the HQ where she had been living for many years now and her smell was everywhere. Taste was useless, too. Only touch remained, for no matter how quietly she moved, the flow of air would give her approach away. He just had to stay on guard, and everything would be alright. And Chip stayed on guard, approaching the staircase one step a time and lamenting silently he had never truly tested his weapon. Had he done it, he would have discovered that even after having fully charged it still hummed. Not as loudly as immediately after the activation, but still pretty noticeably, especially at night in the resonant corridor.

Well, it was too late to improve the design now. It was time to use it. His shot should count, for he wouldn't have a chance to make another attempt. If there was anything positive in this whole situation, it's that Gadget was a mouse, not a squirrel or a chipmunk that he would have to chase across the walls and ceiling, too. A small relief, although who knows what she was capable of in her current state. And he should not forget about plunger shoes…

Despite a wide range of technology pieces Gadget, that is, MAP could potentially use, Chip didn't need to search through the entire HQ. When he reached the living room, thanking heavens several times that the stairs were carved out in the wood and didn't creak, the first thing he saw was her. The mouse was sitting on the sofa with her back to the stairs, not moving nor making any sound. Chip even mistook her for a bait mannequin masterfully made from her jumpsuit staffed with some rugs and her often-used wig. But then Gadget sighed deeply and moved her ears, dissolving any doubts and making Chip raising his weapon. But his wife continued to sit still looking straight ahead, and the chipmunk felt his finger on the trigger starting shaking treacherously as his determination was slowly being replaced by doubt.

_Maybe that wasn't neurochhip? Maybe she didn't turn into MAP after all?_

_Don't be a fool! Of course she did! How else can you explain her behavior? She had never behaved like that before!_

_I wouldn't be so sure about it. She really trashed Baby Thaddeus who infuriated her…_

_But that was the criminal who cynically deceived her best intentions, not some innocent testing rig! And stop wasting time! Maybe she's having a temporary lucidness, and she's just sitting there not knowing where she is and what's going on, like in Washington after Zipper's attack…_

_Then it would be foolish to shoot now, for it can…_

_You prefer waiting until the chip is on again? Let's wait until 9 AM then. Or until the next accidental electric shock…_

NO!

Chip raised the already lowering weapon again and pressed the trigger slightly. It yielded easily, and a little red dot appeared on the back of Gadget's head. The humming grew louder indicating the weapon was ready to shoot. Just a little more pressure on the trigger, and the vent would open releasing a load of pressurized air into a pipe in the barrel. It would push out the small rubber plate with two probes running through it which would fly towards the target, rapidly unwinding twelve inches of thin copper wires running through the pipe…

But there were fifteen inches between the stairs and the sofa, and since the air load was comparatively small, and the contact head's aerodynamic was far from perfect, the effective fire range was only ten inches.

_Five inches…_

Chip gulped nervously, intently watching the red dot dancing on his wife's hair and wishing he were a telekinesis adept and could pull the unfortunate sofa closer without alerting Gadget. _Why did I settled on ten inches of range?_ Chip wondered at himself recalling all the hours he spent over the blueprints. _I should have measured the living room at least…_ On the other hand, the weapon's design was already a product of painful fight against size and weight limitations, and extra five, that is, ten inches of thin wire were one of those straws that destroy everything in their wake. Chip wasn't a victim of the design flaw. He just predicted the MAP encounter to be a quick fight on the minimal distance when you just have to point the barrel at the rapidly approaching enemy. He couldn't even dare to dream about sneaking up to his target and shooting from safe distance.

Aiming at the spot a little below his wife's left ear, Chip started moving forward, barely lifting his feet and trying to breathe as seldom as possible. He didn't know what his adversary was up to. He wasn't even sure it was an adversary. He just knew that he must negotiate these five inches and pull the trigger. Surely the generator barely squeezed into the air gun's frame was no match for the test rig's electric engine, but it greatly surpassed that miniature electric shocker Sparky had built in Washington. This time neurochip had no chances.

Four inches to the firing spot.

_This thing is so loud! I wish I could turn it off. I wonder whether she knows I'm here?_

_Of course she does! She's not deaf!_

_Why doesn't she react then? Maybe she can't hear me, her ears are lowered. But what for? She usually lowers them when she's sad about something…_

Three inches to the firing spot.

_But what's she up to anyway? Lure me up? Let me come close and then jump at me?_

_What if she's armed?!_

_With what? The cyanide syringe is nowhere to be seen, that's good news. But she's definitely holding something. Too bad we replaced our old TV with a plasma panel; I would like to see what it is…_

_Don't be a fool! It's good we replaced it or she would have noticed my reflection a long time ago. By the way, even without a reflective surface she'll notice the laser designator. Let's move it to the top of her head so as not to hit a wall accidentally wit it…_

Two inches to the firing spot.

Gadget lifted her left hand making Chip stop and move the red dot back to the base of her ear. Right where Gadget's paw was at the moment. She seemed to have felt the dot crawling along her hair and was now trying to make the naughty light go away and let her concentrate…

What was it? Coincidence? Feint? Or was she deliberately shielding the neurochip from the potential attack…?

_SHE KNOWS ABOUT TEN INCHES!_

_That's foolish! How can she know?_

_Who knows? She's a technical genius! She calculated, estimated, computed, guessed… I must shoot now!_

_Too early!_

_It would be late soon!_

_It won't reach her!_

_Aim higher, it will then._

_Okay. One more inch and I'm shooting._

_Now!_

_Later!_

_Now!_

_Later!_

_Now—_

"Chip…"

_Too late, _Chip thought when it suddenly dawned on him. _She talks. She's calling me by name. She…_

"Is it you, Chip? It's you, I know. Listen, I—"

"Gadget, don't move," Chip asked. His brain refused to understand what's going on, so he decided to play it safe. It won't hurt to take a shot…

"What, Chip?" Gadget asked.

"Don't move," Chip repeated. "And don't look back".

Of course, as soon as he said it, Gadget turned around and chipmunk knew he wouldn't shoot. He was physically incapable of shooting her in the forehead even out of the best intentions…

"Chip…" Gadget's eyes widened. "Chip, what's THIS?"

"This… It's just…" Chip babbled as he lowered the weapon. When Gadget turned around he reflectively let the trigger go and she didn't saw the laser ray pointing at her face. It didn't make the barrel pointed at her any more pleasant sight though. Or any less telltale, for that matter.

Gadget clenched her small fists, and her eyes sparkling. "Chip, you… So… So you… Golly, and I thought… So you did it deliberately… On purpose…"

"Gadget…"

"Chip, how could you…?" the mouse went on through her tears. "I believed you… Trusted you… And you… You pushed me on the engine first… And when it wasn't enough, you went after the gun… To make it count, yes? Once and for all? Do it, then… Do it!"

"Wait! It's not what you're thinking it is! It's not a gun…"

"Really?!" Gadget jumped off the sofa and gazed at her husband, her face seeming even more angry because of the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I'm not an idiot! I can recognize the weapon when I see one!"

"Hear me out!" Chip raised his voice, but Gadget ignored him. Now there was not only insult, sorrow and weeping in her voice, but also mockery. "And how does it perform, Chip? Where you should shoot? Head or breast?"

"Let me explain!"

"…From what distance? Does it have good stopping power? The victim dies outright with no agony or it takes two or three shots?"

"NOBODY DIES! IT'S A SHOCKER!" Chip yelled unable to hold back any longer.

"A SHOCKER?! AND HOW DID YOU PLAN TO KILL ME WITH A SHOCKER?!"

"I DIDN"T WANT TO KILL YOU! IT'S NOT AGAINST YOU! IT'S AGAINST THE MAP! YOU HEAR?! THE MAP!"

If it weren't for the humming of the weapon and the couple's loud breathing, there was a complete silence in the room.

"Against the map?" Gadget asked in a more normal voice. "But… But the neurochip is destroyed!"

"I know. That is, I know we managed to turn it off, but—"

"So you… Golly… So you had…" Gadget raised her paw to her mouth and sat back on the sofa. Chip went around it from the opposite end and prudently sat on the next seat, not too far and not too close to his wife. At least for the time being.

"I didn't push you on the engine. I wanted to push you from it when I saw the grounding wasn't connected. I would have never—"

"Yes, I know, I just… I didn't know what I was talking about. I remember you saying something about the grounding—"

"Saying? I was bawling my head off!"

"Yes, yes, that's what I meant… Not that your head were off, since it remained in place… Golly, what am I talking about? Oh, yeah… So you thought my neurochip turned on after the shock?"

"Yes. Didn't it?"

"Didn't it what?"

"Didn't it turn on?"

"Gosh, what are you talking about? All its schematics and contacts burned out long ago! It will never turn on again, there's nothing to turn on anymore!"

"Well, considering the history of our joint work and all those devices turning on spontaneously…"

"Oh, drop it!" Gadget snorted at her husband, not as at enemy though but as at lazy pupil who hadn't made his homework. It was definitely a progress, and Chip immediately moved a little bit closer to her. "Residual voltage on capacious parts, for instance, condensers of a working device is one thing." Gadget went on, not noticing anything. "But a molten piece of silicon with no remaining tracks is another. You should know that if you built this thing." She nodded at the weapon. "How does it work?"

"Not bad. Maybe. I didn't really try it out."

"And how it should work?"

Chip shrugged. "There's nothing special. The scheme consists of a lithium battery, voltage converter and two probes in the wires running through a rubber head. The wires run along a ballpoint reservoir attached to a compressed air container in the butt. The trigger has two positions. First pressing activates the laser sight in the barrel, and if you press it to the end, it shoots. Then you'll have just to bend the butt down to pump another portion of air into the container and you can shoot again. So-so, if you ask me."

"Why, it's a very good job," Gadget objected, relaxing a bit when discussing her favorite topic. "You've made a really good progress."

"Sparky made it."

"Sparky?" Gadget was surprised. "Strange, he never told me about it. I never asked him about anything like that, though, and taking into account his memory, that is, his issues with it…"

"That's why I turned to him. I was sure that if I had to remind him what I need every minute or so, then he would never tell anyone. Maybe he won't even remember this now. So much time has passed."

"And how long ago did you mastermind it?" Gadget asked dryly.

"Right after we watched Mission: Impossible 3"

Gadget frowned as she recalled. "Quite a long time ago."

"Yeah, quite," Chip acknowledged. "Actually I watched this film as comedy and sat it out only because you were enjoying it. But I still remember that helicopter episode when the heroes tried to disable the neurochip similar to yours using a defibrillator…"

Gadget nodded silently. She remembered that episode, too. Actually, all the Rangers remembered it, for it really resembled the situation they had experienced firsthand.

"…But against you, that is, the MAP, defibrillator wouldn't work; something ranged was needed, like Tasers. That's what I told Sparky. Of course I didn't tell him everything, why I needed it specifically, spoke in general. And when the rifle was ready, I hid it in a secret place and kept there. Tried not to think of it at all. Until tonight."

Chip fell silent and for a while the electric shock rifle on his knees was the only source of sound in the room. But now its monotonous hum irritated Chip instead of reassuring him, and he clicked the switch. A loud noise caught Gadget's attention. She looked at Chip, then at the weapon.

"Why didn't you ask me?" she inquired reproachingly. "I would have explained everything."

"I know, but…" Chip shrugged. "I didn't want to raise this topic. This scar already bothers you, and if I start mentioning it—"

"What do you mean, Chip? I've long forgotten about it!"

"Oh, come on! I'm not blind. You even changed your haircut to make it less visible. By the way, it looks very nice this way!"

Gadget frowned as she looked at her husband intently. "Chip! I didn't change my haircut! On the contrary, after the implanting the skin tightened a little and my hair grows differently, and I brush it so that it would lay the way it did before. I just seldom do it now, I keep forgetting about it for I've never really cared about my looks, you know… So that's what it's all about…"

Chip didn't quite get it. "What? What do you mean?"

"It started then, didn't it?"

"Eh?"

"Your concern about my hair, your unhealthy attitude towards me working with electric devices…"

"It's not unhealthy!" Chip objected gloomily. "Just an ordinary precaution."

The mouse shook her head. "No, Chip, not just that. It's called paranoia."

"Paranoia?!" Chip exclaimed. "And what about the parts flying about the workshop? What of the test rig you destroyed right in front of me? Was it my paranoia, too?! And a pillaged wardrobe in the bedroom? What was that?!"

"That was this," Gadget nodded in the direction of the front door. Chip looked there and grew pale from the top of his head to the end of his tail. There were two hastily packed suitcases with pieces of clothing protruding from them, as well as the metallic toolbox lying on its side. Apparently, it was the sound of its falling that led Chip here.

"Gadget, dear…" he stuttered. "You… That's not what I'm thinking it is, is it?"

Gadget exhaled loudly trying to suppress the shaking of her entire body.

"You.. You're not going to… Gadget, please, don't!"

"That's temporary," the mouse said staring at the TV's dull black screen. "I haven't been to my plane for a while, it's probably unsuitable for living now, so I won't stay there for too long. Just a couple of days. A week at most. Even less than that. Believe me, it will be better this way."

"For whom? For you? Or for me? It won't be better for me, that's for sure!"

"For both of us. It's… Believe me, we… We need to, uhm, calm down. It's not for long, Chip."

Chip barely managed to swallow a lump in his throat. "Don't do it, Gadget, please! It's the end! Can't you see it? It's the end for… for both of us! If it happens, we'll lose everything and we'll never get it back! Forgive me, please! I'll change, I swear! Everything will be differently! Not like before!"

"It's already not like before," Gadget said quietly glancing at the electric rifle. Even if Chip hadn't noticed it, he would have still done what he did. Just because it was the only thing that could have been done in that situation.

Chip silently rose and went to the stairs. Gadget remained on the sofa, turning around only when she heard a loud noise from that direction. Chip was standing at the base of the staircase holding the gun by its barrel and hitting it against the corner with all his might. First the shattered laser designator lens poured from the barrel, and then the battery flew away torn off along with its holder. After another few hits the butt cracked open exposing the air pumping piston. Then the broken mainspring stuck out from the crack, and a loud plop signified the breach of the air container. At this point the weapon gave up and the parts began to fall one after another. Copper wires broke with the sound of the snapping strings, and the rubber head with probes fell under Chip's feet. Gadget mindlessly followed her and almost missed the butt tearing away and falling on the lowest stair with a mournful tap.

Only then Chip stopped, dropped the barrel which was now a separate part on the floor, and came back to the sofa, not accidentally sitting down closer to his wife than before. Gadget didn't notice it, her eyes still studying the shredded debris covered with splinters from the wall. Chip thought she would go and start assembling the shocker back, but then Gadget sat straight again.

"You shouldn't have. It was a good thing." She said quietly.

"Well…" Chip shrugged. "It wasn't quite good, actually. The battery had a charge for three shots tops, but you wouldn't really have time to shoot more than once because you had to roll the wires back up manually. There was no space inside for another electric motor."

"It could have been upgraded. Two new thinner batteries instead of the single thick one. Flywheel on the wire roll which is powered up by butt bending and starts rotating and spins the wires back after the shot. It should work. That is, it should have worked."

"Don't bother. I won't be able to use it after aiming at you. Wouldn't even touch it."

"Seriously?" Gadget asked with just a shade of the former irony. Her left paw was absentmindedly plucking at the collar of her jumpsuit which, as Chip noted only now, she put on right over her nightgown. Her right paw was resting on her knee, and the chipmunk didn't need to lean forward too much to touch it, but he decided against it. Who knew how she would respond. No rush, it would only spoil everything, and this time, Chip felt, it would be his final and irreparable error.

"More serious than ever," he said instead wiping his sweaty paws off his knees.

Gadget just breathed deeply through her nose, but at least Chip's answer didn't cause any allergic reaction so it could be considered the right one.

"Forgive me. I don't know how it all happened, what came over me—"

"Don't, Chip," Gadget interrupted him. "You know everything."

Chip pursed his lips in and out a few times. "You remember that night in DC," he said then, not questioning but stating.

Gadget nodded. "You chose a wonderful music".

"And you chose a beautiful dress."

"Mom wore it just once. She thought it didn't suit her. It didn't match her dark hair, indeed…"

"You said you didn't remember her—" Chip said and immediately shriveled covering his mouth with his paw.

But Gadget didn't become angry. She just quivered as if feeling chilled. "I remembered. Later…"

"Let's change the topic, shall we?" Chip stopped her, getting another tenth of inch closer to her along the way. "It suited you perfectly! It suited everything perfectly. Why haven't you ever worn it again?"

Gadget shrugged. "I dunno. There was no suitable occasion. And it's rather a relic now than simply a piece of clothing. Just like the wedding dress."

"And like your father's jacket. They don't do those anymore. A real polar pilot's jacket. I would have frozen on the way back it weren't for it."

"I doubt it," Gadget hemmed. "The night was warm, we were flying low and you didn't sit still."

"Neither did you, by the way," Chip countered and smiled hoping Gadget would return the gesture. Judging by her lips' movement her immediate reaction was exactly that, but she quickly covered her mouth with her paw and looked away for a second, and when she turned to Chip again, her lips were pressed tightly. There was a positive aspect, though, for while she was not looking Chip decreased the distance between them by a whole one third of an inch. Overall there was no reason to be happy though. That's why Chip decided to take a risk, for he was sitting close enough to Gadget now to be able to grab her hand if she tried to leave.

"Gadget, please, tell me what's wrong," he asked as kindly and tenderly as he could. Gadget looked away again and stared at the TV, but Chip felt intuitively that she is about to open up and tell him everything that gnawed her. And it was obvious that something was gnawing her.

"I am sorry I assaulted you," Chip went on. To tell the truth, he saw nothing in his words and deeds in the workshop which counted as the assault. But he surmised that a small tactical retreat would make Gadget more candid and lead to the overall victory. "I was overzealous indeed. I would have never scorned your passion for technology. It saved my life countless times, and it allowed us to get acquainted and live so much time under the same roof. It's just that if you remember, like, that very first night, that flight from Washington! We were laughing, kissing, making plans for our future, and discussed the number of our future children so actively we almost hit the tree! And now I, well, I just don't understand. Please, dear, don't go anywhere! Don't do it! It would make things only worse and— In short, if you changed your mind, if something changed, or you just need more time, just tell me, for God's sake. I'll understand, I swear!"

Gadget turned to him again and there was so much pain in her eyes that Chip's heart almost stopped. Something was indeed wrong. Very wrong.

But still it's better than omissions and depressing uncertainty.

"Chip… Forgive me, Chip. I know I should have told you much earlier but… Well, I must confess…"

Chip watched her without blinking. The moment of truth has come, and he was prepared to hear, understand and forgive anything.

Except the door bell ringing.

"Who could that be?" Chip murmured turning round. "Don't get up, I'll open," he stopped Gadget who started getting up, adjusted his pyjamas for better image and headed to the front door. _So untimely! _He grumbled to himself. _Well, emergency calls are never timely..._

He was wrong.

"Hi Chip, I mean, good night!" Dale greeted him.

"What are you doing here, Dale?" Chip asked instead of greeting.

"Oh, I have an urgent secret mission!" Dale answered proudly, assuming a dignified air and rakishly throwing the end of his bright-green scarf winded right over his Hawaiian shirt behind his back.

"Stop playing fool, Dale!"

"I play no one!" Dale frowned but smiled happily seeing Gadget rising up from the sofa behind Chip's back. He waved the end of his scarf at her. "Hi, Gadget, here I am!"

"What does it mean?" Chip inquired coldly. He didn't like this 'here I am!' part very much.

"It? It's the scarf. By the way, haven't you got any hot chocolate by chance? I dressed up slightly out of season. And Chip, how about letting me in? I'm getting the impression you aren't glad to see me."

"No, why, I really am!" Chip stepped aside letting his friend pass, shut the door behind him and stood in front of it cutting the withdrawal route off. "Now speak your piece!"

"Chip, I'll explain everything in a moment!" Gadget said.

"See, Chip. Gadget will explain everything to us! So what about the chocolate?"

Chip paid no attention to his friend's question. "You expected him?" he asked his wife.

"Of course she did!" Dale answered instead. "She called me here!"

"Called you?" Chip asked. "How?"

"By the phone, how else? It's that funny thingy, you know? You speak into one end and listen from the other—"

"Shut up!" Chip broke him off. "Is it true, Gadget? You called him?"

"Chip, you behave like this is news to you!" Dale took off his scarf and wiped his sweaty tuft. "It's so hot here… Oh, and you need to clean up!" he added pointing at the shocker remains. "I hope you two didn't invite me to participate in the cleaning?" he asked in horror. "That wouldn't be very nice…"

Gadget's smile would have been radiant if it weren't for its apparent tension. "Golly, Dale, of course not! That is, not quite. Not for that. Not for cleaning, I mean. Not for cleaning, but for taking out, but not of the garbage, quite the opposite…"

In contrast to Dale who hanged up trying to parse Gadget's words Chip understood everything all too well. "In short you asked him to pick up you and your things to make the ride to the plane not so boring and tiresome."

Gadget blushed visibly. "Well, you're basically right, although the way you put it sound rather ambiguously…"

"Okay, I'll reformulate. You initiated a family scandal with mayhem and as soon as I left the room you rushed to call up your lover to ride away with him in some cozy nest you prepared in advance. Am I putting it right now?"

Gadget froze. Dale's eyes popped out. "Gadget's got a lover? Chip, it can't be!"

"SHUT UP!" Chip yelled at him. His high-pitched voice sounded like sharp claws gnashing against the glass. "I'll deal with you later! Gadget!"

The mouse inventor was a sorry sight. "Chip," she whispered coming up to him and trying to take him by his elbow. "It's not true! Golly, you got it all wrong…"

"What's there to get?!" Chip jerked his hand away from her. "You think I'm blind and deaf?! You think I'm some kind of fool?!"

"Chip, believe me! I didn't even think about—"

"Then what is HE doing here?!" Chip poked his finger into Dale's nose.

"Hey!" Dale shouted indignantly. "Careful! And guys, really, stop this soap browser, erhm, what's its name, oh, Opera!"

"I'll show you Opera alright!" Chip grabbed Dale by his lapels and pressed him to the nearest wall. "She won't be yours, do you hear me?! She's mine! MINE!"

"Stop it, Chip," Dale wheezed trying to tear friend's paws off his shirt. "What the heck are you saying?"

"TRUTH!" Chip yelled. "I'm telling the truth! And I want to hear the truth from you!"

"What… Let me go! What truth?!"

"Leave him be, Chip! Let him go!" Gadget shouted to her husband, but he heard nothing and wanted to hear nothing.

"Truth!" he repeated. "About all this time, all these years! You've always stood between us! And you still stand! 'Days of jealousy are far behind us…' Nicely put, I even bought it! 'I'm into Foxy now…' Great alibi, that's for sure!"

As soon as Chip said the bat's name, Dale seemed to become the avatar of some of his favorite comic book heroes, and not just one of them to boot. With a deep roar he pushed his attacker into his chest so hard that Chip flew at least five inches away and just stood there clenching pieces of Dale's shirt's collar in his fists.

"Shut up!" Dale hissed. "You know nothing! Nothing! One more word and—"

"Come on, what are you waiting for?!" Chip moved towards him.

"Chip, please! Stop it! Hear me out!" Gadget attempted to stop him. She jumped up to her husband and grabbed him by his elbow forcing him to look at her. She shouldn't have done it. She saw the muzzle with bloodshot eyes, widened nostrils and scowled lips which barely resembled the face of Chip she knew had loved. The roles switched. Now it was Gadget confronting a war machine programmed for destruction instead of her beloved one.

"Protecting him, right?" Chip said. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and nose, threw away the red and yellow pieces of cloth in disgust, and looked at tousled Dale and then at Gadget. "Just what was to be proved. And I believed you, come think of it…"

"SO WHY YOU DON"T BELIEVE ME NOW?!" Gadget lamented putting her paws together in a praying manner. "Can't you understand?! After everything we went through together you still have doubts?! I love you, Chip! Only you, believe me!"

Chip crossed his hands on his chest and smirked. "You know, Gadget, I believed you when you said you kissed him just because all spies do that. And I believed you when you said you wanted children. And now what? Where is all of it? Instead you fall into hysterics at the first convenient moment, gather your things and call this duffer up to drive you to 'be alone', and now you're asking me to _believe_ you? No way!"

There they were. The most horrible words you could hear from the closest person in the world. Gadget screwed her eyes up and breathed rapidly, and when she opened her eyes again, Dale felt some quite unpleasant deja-vu and instinctively glanced at the clock to make sure it wasn't 9 AM yet.

"ChipGadgetit'ssowrongwhatareyoudoingyou'rehusbandandwifeyouloveeachother!" He chattered trying to bring his friends to their senses or, at the very least, get their attention. Gadget was the first to react. Striding rapidly up to the suitcases, she lifted them both without any visible effort and shoved them into Dale's hands who barely managed to remain standing. She picked up her toolbox then, issued a short command "Let's go, Dale!" and left through the front door.

"Gadget… Chip… What's gotten into you?" Dale asked in hoarse voice bending under the weight of his load.

"Exit is that way," Chip pointed at the half-open door with his eyes. "You'll find it by yourself or you need my help?"

"Listen, Chip, I have no idea what happened here but I'm pretty sure it's only a misunderstanding not worthy of your marriage and our friendship! It's not some computer game where you can load the latest save and replay everything again! Think again, please! I ask you as your friend!"

"You are still here?" Chip asked indifferently. "I advise you to leave quickly, while I'm kind. Consider it a favor _for old friendship,_ so to say."

"Chip, you—" Dale tried again to reach his friend, but Chip turned his back on him and assumed a relaxed pose of a rodent who cares about nothing.

_Oh, I see! Alright, we'll see whose nerves are stronger!_ Dale decided. He feigned indifference, too, and went to the door stomping and clanking hard with his suitcases.

"Well, I and Gadget are off, then!" he announced loudly from the threshold.

"Good riddance," Chip answered without turning around.

Dale didn't expect that. He saw only two possible outcomes. Either Chip regains his senses and rushes to beg Gadget for forgiveness, and Dale comes to his rescue, and they manage to convince Gadget not to leave. Or Chip can't stand Dale's teasing and attacks him, and Dale calls for Gadget, and they manage to force Chip to regain his senses, and then see above.

But Chip withstood the provocation. Dale's plan didn't anticipate this option. He thought hard, but couldn't come up with anything. _I should have watched some melodramas,_ he thought. _I know how to repel the invasion from Mars but I can't reconcile my friends! Ridiculous! Let's try to reason with Gadget first, then. She is clever and kind, it will be easier!_

Dale started towards the edge of the branch serving as veranda, but stopped when he heard Chip's shout. "Dale, stop!"

_Hooray! _Dale thought. _He has recovered! Everything will be alright now! I'm good after all!_ The chipmunk turned around with a beaming and proud smile…

..and got hit in his nose with two crumpled pieces of cloth.

"You forgot something. Unlike some, I don't need anyone other's belongings," Chip informed him impassively and shut the door. Dale looked down at the two pieces of his shirt lying on the ground and knew what Gadget was feeling when she gave him those suitcases.

_Suitcases…!_

Dale swung his arm, aiming at the door window with Chip's silhouette visible behind it…

"DALE! YOU COMING?!" Gadget shouted from below, and the chipmunk didn't throw the suitcase. First, it was heavy; second, it was Gadget's; third, it was Chip after all…

"Okay, stay there!" Dale shouted at the door. "Call me when… when you grow wiser!"

He turned around and went away. Chip leant his back on the door, listening to the diminishing sounds of footsteps and suitcase clattering. Then he heard a creak and a quiet rustling of a rope against a reel. His friend was using the lift they built on the veranda. Even chipmunks can't climb the trees with suitcases in their hands. He will descend, send the platform up to safety and head to the Rangermobile where Gadget is already waiting for him. Yeah, sure. Personal carriage with a personal driver-porter, no less…

Chip grimaced and clenched his fists tighter. Cheats! Liars! Darned traitors! He was ready to everything for them, risked his life numerous times saving them all from the most hopeless situations!

Coming unstuck from the door the chipmunk started pacing nervously about the living room. Come to think of it! His best friend with whom they went through fire and ice and everything else, and his wife, the love of his life, with whom they had such grand and rosy plans! And instead of it: scandal, hysterics, and ungrounded complaints up to accusations in a murder attempt! After she almost killed him with tachometer! But that was not enough for her! She needed to present him as unbalanced paranoiac! Him! Who worships her, cares about her, dotes on her and almost gave his life for her!

Yes, he didn't like her constantly working with electric devices that could potentially turn her neurochip back on! Yes, he asked Sparky to build the shocker! But it was for her own sake! Maybe he overdid it. Maybe he was too wary, like, for instance, with her toolbox. But he apologized! He repented, he poured his heart out, he even crushed that darned shocker to pieces! And then she packs up, calls Dale up, and then she says he shouldn't 'put it this way'! And how can you put it the other way, how? He personally is used to call a spade a spade, with no curtsies or quibbles. Why can't they do the same? What is this hand-wringing and begging to be heard for if you keep denying the obvious? Why did she call Dale up in the first place? To tell him that there is nothing between them and he has nothing to do with it? That's silly, reasonable people don't do that…

_But she did call him up! She said it herself! And Dale acknowledged it!_

Chip even took the trouble to check the last outgoing calls on the phone. Here it is! Tonight, contact Rangers-3, duration 0 minutes 28 seconds. That was quite fast… On the other hand, he was absent for a very short time, and Gadget had to finish the rig, calm down, get down to the living room, wait for Dale to pick up, talk to him, change and pack up. So even considering her wife's ability to work with blazing speed there was not much time left for the conversation with Dale as such. What can you say in such a short time? On the other hand, what's there to talk about? A couple of short phrases would do. Or, which is more common for Gadget, a lot of long but incomprehensible sentences…

The leader of the Rescue Rangers snorted with disdain, but an unpleasant cold feeling in his abdomen signaling a presence of a small worm of doubt among his emotions and thoughts didn't go away. Now, with the pressure decreased, his analytical part began to rise slowly, picking one moment after another from his memory.

"_Hi Chip, I mean, good night!"_

"_What are you doing here, Dale?"_

"_Oh, I have an urgent secret mission!"_

The last phrase was equally inappropriate for the given situation and very typical for such fan of action and spy movies as Dale, so Chip didn't pay attention to her. And he was wrong, for the following conversation indicated it could have had another, subtler meaning…

"_See, Chip. Gadget will explain everything to us!"_

'Us', not 'you'. But Dale of all people must have known what was going on. But, apparently, he knew even less than Chip.

"Of course she did! She called me here! Chip, you behave like this is news to you! …I hope you two didn't invite me to participate in the cleaning?"

Not just 'you', but 'you two', which in conjunction with 'news' indicated that Dale was sure Chip knew about him coming. Why would he? Only if Gadget told him so, but what for?

_Dale probably asked her how I would react to his sudden visit, wouldn't I suspect something. And she said that I knew everything and this was our mutual invitation. She lied him so he wouldn't be afraid to come here!_

Sounds interesting, but not good. On the contrary, if she had told him their marriage is over, he would have rushed here at full steam.

Still, considering the distance between Rescue Rangers HQ and the WaGuS base, he did rush here at full steam. But why did he pretend to understand nothing? Dale always tried to seem smarter than he was, so he would rather pretend to know why he was called than play a halfwit. To his credit, he played it masterfully, that's for sure. He asked 'Gadget's got a lover?' with amazement practically indistinguishable from the real one.

_How did he do it? It's like the lie detector which would miss the lie only of the subject is sincerely certain he is telling the truth…_

Or if he does tell the truth.

"_Chip, it's not true! Golly, you got it all wrong…"_

_No, no!_ Chip kept telling himself, as the cold in his belly became an arctic frost, and the decision which seemed perfectly justified and perfectly right just a second go started looking like the height of stupidity.

"_SO WHY YOU DON"T BELIEVE ME NOW?! Can't you understand?! After everything we went through together you still have doubts?! I love you, Chip! Only you, believe me!"_

_Oh my… Gadget… What have I done…_

A fan's humming, barely hearable from this height, came from below. Dale brought the suitcases…

"_Listen, Chip, I have no idea what happened here but I'm pretty sure it's only a misunderstanding not worthy of your marriage and our friendship! …Think again, please! I ask you as your friend!"_

Chip clasped his head and pressed so hard the world went dark before his eyes.

_WHAT HAVE I DONE…_

Almost tearing the door off its hinges, Chip ran out on the veranda on all his four. He inhaled deeply to call his friends already moving away, but couldn't do it. His front paws hit the collar pieces Dale had left and slid apart. Chip collided with the branch's smoothly chiseled surface, lost his breath, and could only croak. Dale and Gadget heard nothing. That's why when Chip crept to the edge of the veranda he could only follow the beam of the Rangermobile's headlight till it disappeared in the darkness.

Everything was over.

_No! Not yet!_ Chip told himself and ran down to the garage. Gyrotank was slower than the Rangermobile, but even if he couldn't catch up to them, he'll find them on the plane junkyard. He will find them, explain everything and apologize for all he had done. He will even get down on his knees if he has to. But he will make them forgive him. And he will definitely ask Gadget what she really wanted to tell him…


	3. Chapter 2 Show and Tell

**Chapter 2**

**Show and Tell**

* 4 *

_Day First, afternoon_

"Come on guys, come on, we're rolling! More life!" Suzy Spaulding's voluble and resonant speech was a perfect match for the studio's atmosphere of organized chaos. "I need those two outermost lights turned by forty-five degrees and the middle one to be eight feet from both them! We'll move the chair to the left, closer to the screen... Stan, turn to me and raise your right hand! Okay, I see... Peter! Move Stan's chair to the right until I say 'stop'! No-no, Stan, keep sitting! And keep your hand up! Alright... Stop! Thank you, Peter, now help Chris with the wires! Stan, what do you think? Do you need more light?"

"I think it's okay," Blather said uncertainly. He could barely conceal his nervousness. He wasn't a newcomer to the TV studio, but it was the first time when his voice was a decisive one. He was the hub of this particular part of the universe where stage was being set for 'Stan Blather's Special Investigation'. Surely not the most original name for TV project, after two hard weeks the sign was the last thing the special correspondent cared for. That's how he should be called now, and that's what would be written on the credits the whole state would see. His own show with a state-wide broadcast. It felt good, but at the same time a little intimidating. Terrifying, to be honest…

"Stan! Sta-a-an!" Suzy clicked her fingers loudly to get the attention of her ward. "Don't sleep! Tell me, do you want the camera to move on you from your right, capturing the logo, or should it show the logo close-up first and then move onto you?"

"And what's the better option?"

"I think we should show the logo first, than the studio's general plan, and then close up on you. We do it for Henry, it's very showy and the viewers like that—"

"No, not like for Henry!" Blather objected heartily. "Let's make a rapid close-up, like in the news, but from the opposite direction."

Spaulding shook her head. "No. The monitoring shows that this movement is badly perceived by the viewers, something to do with heart or brain hemispheres, I don't remember exactly."

"Okay, and how they perceive a top-down movement?"

"Rather positively."

"Let's do it top-down, then. We'll bring him down to earth with a bang, so to say."

"Great idea!" The TV director clicked her fingers again. "And a great slogan! 'Don't miss the Stan Blather show! It's time to come down to earth with a bang!' What do you think?"

Stan nodded. "Not bad."

"Brigit!" Suzy shouted at her assistant. "Heard what I said? Write it down and arrange properly! Old Guard must see it as soon as possible!"

"No worries, it's here already." The deep voice with a distinctive huskiness which came from behind their backs made Spaulding blush and all others look away to hide their grins.

"Mister Jefferson," Suzan stuttered. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Don't be, Miss Spaulding," the Channel Six news director interrupted her. "It's much better than Old Screw."

He smiled and the tense disappeared immediately. Another proof that 64-year-old Tobias Jefferson not only led but really ran his department. A New-York native and a true American, devoutly proud that his remote ancestor wrote the text of the Declaration of Independence, he was aware like no other of the value of interpersonal relations. In contrast to his predecessor who remained in everyone's memory because of several scandalous dismissals she had initiated, he supervised his subordinates in strict but at the same time honest and just manner, and would never even think about firing a popular host with no chance to say his live good-bye to viewers. He wasn't the most popular man in the company but the news department workers loved him and used the word 'Guard' without even a hint of otherwise common irony.

"So, how does our new King of the Air feel?" Jefferson asked Stan merrily. "Knees shaking, skin crawling, and the spirit ran into the boots and is shouting 'Occupied!' from down there? And that's perfectly legit, because you don't know everything yet. You see, I spoke to the head office…"

Blather's heart sank. At this point the head's office involvement could mean only one thing: his program got a red light. The slogan 'It's time to come down to earth with a bang!' suited it for a reason. He felt precisely that when he read the disk's contents. To earth with a bang, hitting the ground with his face. 'David' didn't lie when he mentioned the two pills. The reporter suddenly felt himself a completely different man. The man who sent his children and wife to her parents on the very next day instructing them strictly not to come back before his call, then applied for an exceptional leave because of family matters and spent the next week riding from Washington to New York and back, verifying every fact mentioned in the received files.

Stan quickly recognized that 'David' and his mates were right when they thought that veterans of investigation journalism would have difficulties with meeting the people who agreed to see him. And although the majority of these meetings ended after the very first awkward questions, the unwillingness to answer his questions and repeated advice to drop this case were more informative than even the most detailed answers. And here his unfamiliarity and inexperience played into his hands again, for the whole six days had passed before his immediate superior was called and hinted to call Stan off.

Of course Jefferson summoned him immediately and demanded explanations. Blather planned to visit him after verifying everything and tried to make away with some general phrases. But Tobias was a tough nut to crack and didn't let his subordinate go until Blather agreed to show him what he had got.

At first Stan wanted to create several physical copies of the David's disk's image and put them into cloak-rooms at Grand Central Station, bus stations and airports. But then Stanley Blather-junior, the family's tech savvy, advised his 'old man' to hide the image in 'the most secret place on the web'. Stan was skeptical at first, suspecting that if his son knows about it, government agencies know about it, too, but after phrases like 'a complete freedom of electronic speech', 'independence from corporations' and 'complete absence of creepholes for the badgers' he let himself be convinced and came up trumps. On the other hand, he had to take Tobias to Maplewood, for his home computer was the only place Stan knew how to access the aforementioned 'secret place'. But in the end Jefferson was so impressed by his subordinate's security measures that he believed everything he saw and when they finished looking through the materials he said just one phrase: 'Tell me what you need.' Such a huge support greatly simplified and hastened his work on the program, but now it seemed it had come to an end…

"And what with the head office?" Blather asked. His degrading mood didn't go unnoticed.

"Come on, Stanley, cheer up!" Jefferson frowned jokingly. "It's not quite that bad! Although you'd better get your morale ready. In short I spoke to the directorate, gave them a short description of what we're dealing with down here, and they agreed to put you live into our network's general feed including InnerTube and ."

"Bu that's…" Blather gasped trying to accumulate the amount of air needed to finish the phrase. "…the whole world."

"Exactly, my boy! You story deserves no less, I assure you. So brace yourself for during this hour you will be the face of WBC and all progressive journalism! More life! Right, Suzy?"

"Right, sir!" Spaulding got her bearings seeing that her boss wasn't angry with her. "I always tell him that!"

"And you do a good thing… Excuse me," the news director got a buzzing phone out of his jacket's inner pocket, glanced at the screen and pressed the pick up button. "Yes, Gladys?...I see. No, don't switch. I'll come upstairs."

He put the phone back and quickly strode to the door. Blazer looked up at the Jefferson's office's windows overlooking the set. Here Jefferson appeared at his desk invisible at this angle and picked up a black phone receiver, simultaneously closing the shutters. The black phone. Jefferson's personal line, not listed in any directory. His direct connection with the company's top management.

_Surely it's about cancelling the program,_ Stan guessed. _Of course, if not now, then when?_

Sitting two floors above him, Tobias Jefferson's thoughts were similar, but his spirit was much more combative.

"Jefferson's here," he said, customarily pushing a small round button with red circle on it on the right side of the desk's built-in console. It glowed orange indicating the recording had started.

"Good day, Mister Jefferson, it's me again," the invisible caller spoke.

Tobias' nerves tightened. It wasn't the WBC head office calling. This man was one of those who called him about Blather's 'feverish activity'. Last time he called the news director's home, and Tobias had nicknamed him 'Godfather'. His voice wasn't quite like the soulless voices of the 'phone well-wishers' from Hollywood thrillers. On the contrary, it was full of live hues which allowed forming his more or less detailed portrait. A round face with at least two chins, oily lips and massive jaws with a couple of dental implants used to chew on delicious meals, expensive cigars, and those who crossed their owner's path. The portrait of a man who had the power and knew how to exercise it. He had made no offers one couldn't refuse as of yet. Would he make one this time?

"And still no name?" the TV director asked knowing the answer beforehand.

"That's inconvenient, I agree, but believe me, it's better for everyone this way. As far as I know, you didn't listen to my advice and gave Blather a green light, didn't you?"

"How do you know that?"

"Just like I know how to access your private line. I'm telling you, Mister Jefferson, you are playing with fire."

Tobias sniffed. "If you want to impress me, you should come up with something more elaborate. If they paid me a dollar each time I and my reporters heard this in various forms and under various pretexts, I would be richer than Gates by now."

'Godfather' chuckled approvingly. "Well, you are right about that, you're a knowledgeable old bird. But what would you say if I told you we know everything about the disk?"

Jefferson had to acknowledge that his opponents wasted no time, but he wasn't about to concede easily. "Disk? What are you talking about?"

'Godfather' wasn't moved by his easiness a bit. "Mister Jefferson, please, let's forget these tricks and quirks and talk like two solid grown-ups. We know very much. We know the contents of the disk Mister Blather received. We even know exactly which our employee gave this disk to him. Of course, he will be punished according to our organization's regulations. But it pales in comparison with what will happen to much more people if the recording is published. And I'm not speaking about you, Mister Blather nor Miss Spaulding here, mind you. Think about it."

Tobias squeezed the receiver so hard it seemed it wouldn't hold and break into halves. "In that case I inform you that our conversation is being recorded and if a hair falls from my head or the heads of my people, I will—"

"Please, Mister Jefferson, don't get hot under your collar," 'Godfather' said soothingly and the news director could swear his opponent was smiling. "I understand you perfectly and I am recording our conversation, too, to avoid future misreadings or other misunderstandings."

"In other words, you're preparing yourself an alibi."

"God forbid, Mister Jefferson, who do you think we are? We are a reputable government agency which exists on the taxpayers' money, including yours. If you cease to exist, our funding will be cut!"

"Don't act the buffoon, Godfather, I—" Tobias faltered. There was silence on the opposite end of the line, too, and Jefferson felt it was making him nervous. First he was infuriated by several casually toned phrases and now he was grinded down by silence. His adversary was really dangerous. He should be very attentive not to betray any really dangerous secrets…

"Godfather," the man on the line said slowly, as if savoring the word. "You know, I like that! Although it's another proof that you think much too poorly of us."

"History proves otherwise," the news director answered cautiously weighing his every word.

"History proves nothing. History is nothing but a collection of myths, shameless lies and only a few truly reliable facts."

"That's what I meant."

"Listen, Mister Jefferson, I'm not going to convince you I'm working in a choir. First, we both know that's not the case. Second, I am proud that's not the case. You see, there are proponents of sometimes absolutely opposite views among both the support staff and the principals of our organization. Some of them, like the officer who flushed you the info, think that the people must know the truth. The others are convinced that the people must know nothing at all. And it's perfectly natural, since the access to confidential files, like any other power, changes the man, and sometimes in quite an unpredictable manner. Yes, there are hotheads among our ranks who, if they had enough authority, would have readily ordered the assault on your studio to prevent even the tiniest bit of this info leaking to the press. And that's not a threat, as you're probably thinking, but a statement of fact. And here's another statement of fact: you are very lucky they aren't as powerful as they were twenty years ago. Think about it."

"And still you're threatening me," Jefferson observed.

'Godfather' exhaled loudly' not angrily though, but tiredly. "No, Mister Jefferson, I'm not threatening you. I don't even ask you to cancel the program you are preparing. It will be a separate investigation program, right? Don't answer, we both know it's not a kind of information you serve in a thirty-second piece between a weather forecast and the news about Indiana locust outbreak. I just ask you to show a rational prudence and not cross certain lines."

"What do you mean?"

"Now I know I'm speaking to a businessman! Like I said before, I and my colleagues ask you to do us a small favor. No, not small, minuscule." The news director could physically feel 'Godfather' bringing together his left forefinger and thumb. Or right forefinger and thumb if he were left-handed and held the receiver with his left hand. He could be not using a receiver, though. For all Tobias knew, 'Godfather' could be lying on a lounge chair on the beach on some tiny island in the middle of Pacific and speak into thin air addressing a hands-free. "Postpone the program. The unveiling of this information will do more harm than good at the moment."

Tobias allowed himself a spiteful chuckle. "And when the appropriate moment will come? In hundred years?"

"No, much earlier. As soon as we finish investigating the incident during the Peace Summit and the deeds of Doctor Archibald Snow and his connections to the Black Table organization."

"In that case I'm obliged to remind you of the investigations lasting forty or more years. I'm sure I don't need to list them all for you know them by heart, and some of them are known for you only, as far as I can tell. Am I making myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear."

"Can I help you with anything else?"

"You can," the stranger acknowledged, totally indifferent to Jefferson's outright irony. "Don't mention any names in your program. Will it be that hard to mute the speech on some portions of recording and conceal the faces on the security camera footage? Shouldn't be a big deal with your equipment."

Jefferson hemmed. "No names? Even MacMillan's?"

'Godfather' was clearly prepared for this question. "And how did MacMillan wrong you? Yes, his attempt to kill the chipmunk does him no credit, but in the end he killed no one and even perished himself. What's more there to ask?"

"And you buried him like some hero."

"And he was a hero. He served his country, did his job the way he thought was right and, mind you, was very good at it. Who knows how many people are still alive owing to him. Or do you really think one can become the Head of Special Defences by farting around? That's impossible, I assure you!"

"If he is such a great hero, what's the cover-up for?"

"To avoid the complications."

"What complications?"

"Big. Satisfied?"

"To be honest, no."

"Alright, I'll give you a detailed answer. The unveiling of this information in its complete form can lead to numerous human casualties that will fall on your conscience. Is it clearer this way?"

"Listen, you!" Jefferson got up and slapped his palm against the desk. "Don't play on feelings and don't mention conscience which, as I have fully realized by now, means nothing to you! I've lived more than half a century here, and I've met the likes of you enough times to learn once and for all that 'the interests of investigation' and the interests of this country's citizens have very little in common!"

"Are you finished?" Godfather asked indifferently.

"No, not at all! I've just begun! And you will see the follow-up on our channel!"

"Well, Mister Jefferson, it's a pity that we didn't gain understanding. But still I sincerely hope you'll hold up the material you've got until you think everything through and make the only right decision in this situation, that is to make a compromise with us and don't air the program until the case is settled. Or remove all names and all mentions of the Black Table from the script. As you can see, we give you a complete freedom of choice, not to mention that you are entitled to do everything you want with the rest of the materials."

"Thanks for your generosity, but I'm afraid that after such a clean-up there won't be any material left anymore!" Jefferson said sarcastically.

"Don't be spiteful, Tobias."

"It's Mister Tobias for you!"

"If that's so important for you, _Mister_ Tobias, you are welcome. Best of luck!"

"You…" Jefferson didn't have time to finish since the stranger hung up first. The news director replaced the receiver and turned the recording off, then shook his hands a few times to lower the tension at least a bit, and reached for the cord opening the shutters, when the black phone rang again.

"Sorry to bother you again, Mister Jefferson," the familiar voice said. "Nothing serious, just a friendly advice. Save the recording of our conversation and listen to it from time to time. To keep your precious conscience clean."

"You're taking too much liberty!" Tobias shouted into the receiver but 'Godfather' hung up already. Irritated Jefferson threw the receiver on the phone which responded with a doleful clang, and walked around the room three times. _Save the recording… I'll save it, don't you worry!_ the news director mentally assured his distant opponent. _Thanks for the material for the next Special Investigation installment!_ He came to the window and took the shutters cord. This time the telephone didn't ring, and Jefferson opened the shutters and glanced about his studio, feeling the surge of proud and a very pleasant sense of involvement in something very-very important.

_And I almost conceded…_ he thought, smiling ironically. _Cunning bastards! They know the times have changed and they will no longer get away with their threats, so they 'advise' now, 'strongly recommend' and 'afford to reach a compromise'. We'll see who'll be the last to laugh! If you had wanted it, all the guilty would have been in the felons' box by now! Don't worry, I'll force you to lift your fat bottoms from your armchairs and lounges! How they will run about when the show is on! And let them run. It's useful for them!_

Jefferson looked at Blather sitting far below and gave him a thumb up, adding mentally: _Come on, Stanley, get them! Don't let the old man down!_

* 5 *

"Do you want some tea, Gadget? The kettle has just boiled."

"No, Chip, thank you. Maybe later."

...Around noon Chip drove up to the old bomber standing practically in the middle of the aircraft junkyard which had grown significantly since their first meeting with Gadget. This time he didn't need to climb inside through the engine. He used a wide hatch in the nose which Gadget had cut to take out her bulky inventions amassed after so many years. The hull panel serving as the gate was lowered so Chip didn't even need to knock. He just went inside, took the two suitcases standing near the entrance and carried them to Gyrotank. A few minutes later Gadget went out carrying her toolbox and without uttering a word sat on one of the semicircular benches along the wall of the Rangers' war machine passenger compartment. She had to apply this scheme borrowed from Human APCs to be able to use a landing-cargo hatch cut in the bottom. Chip didn't say a word, too. He just turned the fan on and drove back to the HQ. When they arrived, Gadget went to her workshop to do some cleaning. This exchange of words was the first since their return.

"Need any help?" the chipmunk asked, although at the moment only three boxes in the corner with the remnants of the supervariator reminded of the night havoc.

"What did you do with the gun parts?"

"Put them into a box and carried to the garage."

"Bring them here, please. Not them, but the battery. Oh, and wires, too. And the air container, too, if it isn't damaged too heavily. You know, bring everything here. Not the gun itself, though. Except maybe the barrel…"

"I got it, Gadget, I'll bring them," Chip stopped her and turned around to hide his smile. He knew that tonight's events would haunt them for a very long time, but her speaking in her usual manner gave him hope. And he will pour her some tea in any case. She prefers it cooled down anyways.

Chip made two cups of invigorating drink in the kitchen and went to the garage, trying to pass the turn to the medical wing as fast as possible. He was returning back through the kitchen, too, but this time holding a large box, so he couldn't take the tray with cups to the living room as he had previously planned. As the following events demonstrated, it was for the better; otherwise the cups with tea and tray would fall to the floor as soon as Chip entered the living room. But this way only box fell down along with the gun which couldn't care less. Despite the box hitting his foot Chip couldn't care less, too. as he froze watching the TV screen and whole two seconds passed before he remembered to turn back the muted sound.

He didn't miss much, though, for images for captivating enough. Chip had never seen these before because he was unconscious the entire time these materials were circulating on all the domestic and international channels, recovering from his injury, surgery and narcosis. Still he could tell much more about the events of that day than any human for he participated in them personally, albeit from a different angle so to speak.

Now the angle was the most general one, presenting the viewers on this side of the screen with a panoramic view of the square in front of the United States Capitol's eastern facade. The entire space between police barrier set up five feet from the building and First Street Southeast was filled with people waving white-red-blue flags of the USA, red-white-black flags of Akbarnistan and black-and-white signs with symbols of peace and disarmament. The same symbol formed with smoke tracks of three 'Thunderbirds' F-16 was slowly dissolving in the sky freeing the blue canvas for the next figure.

**"…****ago. You remember the date and the place. Probably you even were there and saw it with your own eyes. Washington Peace Summit, the final destination of Fareed J'quai's Tour of Peace marked by the signing of peace treaty which put an end to decades of war, enmity and terror. But, as we all remember, it was marked not only by this…"**

A close-up of the stage. President Logan at the microphone; Fareed, the First Lady and Secret Service agents behind him. But currently all the attention was directed not at the leaders of their countries, but at their daughters: blonde pink-cheeked Tress Logan and olive-skinned dark-haired Parahk J'quai. The live embodiments of two cultures finally reaching mutual understanding, they are preparing to release a white dove as a symbol of peace and prosperity in the new millennium.

Later Chip repeatedly reconsidered that day's events, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't clearly answer why he had decided to hide under the podium and not somewhere else. It would be a long stretch to call his hiding place secluded, not to mention the President of the USA who was standing right next to it obscuring line of site and cutting exit route. But on that day Chip, George Logan, the United States of America and the whole world got very lucky not once or twice but thrice.

First — when Chip hid in the podium and not somewhere behind a column where he could safely observe the situation but wouldn't have time to interfere. Second — when the President announced that their daughters were about to release the dove in honor of a new era of peace, signaling Chip and stepping aside. It allowed Chip to see little Tress' bewildered and squeamish facial expression, who, and that was the Happy Accident Number Three, had a very sensitive nose which allowed her to smell a rodent hiding in the box and childish frankness which prevented her from hiding her emotions from the public…

**"…****You remember what happened next…"**

_Who could forgive that…_ Chip thought, watching the footage and reliving those eventful seconds. He runs like a hare from the podium to Tress' leg. He jumps sinking all his nails into her shin making her throw up the box with the Peace Dove replaced by the Death Mouse. The President of the USA can be seen for a second, his face distorted with surprise and pain as Ferrante pushes him out of the line of fire with professional sleight, attracting everyone's attention while doing so. Due to the fact that all the eyes and lenses were directed at the commotion behind the podium nobody noticed Gadget falling out of the box with a syringe atilt, nor Zipper swooping on her, nor Dale and Monty with the failed Peace Dove under his arm running out of the building. Nobody noticed the coming of the killer rats, one of which ended up in the troubled pigeon box. That's why nobody knew the truth…

**"…****But we bet you don't know the truth!"**

Chip froze. Had he picked up the fallen box with parts from the floor, his foot would have suffered twice in one evening. Instead it got off cheaply getting hit by merely a TV remote control.

"Truth?" Chip muttered. "What… Could they…"

**"****Today you will know it!"**

"GADGET!" Chip yelled. He was pretty sure his yell scared all the birds and made all the babies cry in a five-hundred-feet radius from their oak, but Gadget didn't respond. Maybe she got too carried away with cleaning up, or maybe she looked at a pile gathered by a broom and thought that these two pipes, a spring and a gear-wheel resemble one of MacGyver's creations, and the subscriber went out of range. In both cases only physical contact could help, but Chip was afraid to move and miss some important detail. _I should record it…_ he thought but the remote control was somewhere on the floor or even under the sofa and it wasn't a good time to look for it at the moment.

Meanwhile the Peace Summit footage stopped, and then started rapidly playing backwards to a louder and tenser musical accompaniment. In a second all the participants stood on their previous places but the footage continues rewinding. It's a montage of several clips shot in various times and from various points which smoothly, albeit somewhat messy, brings the viewers to the very start of the ceremony and the report which opens with a standard phrase thousands of reporters say everyday throughout the world.

**"****This is Stan Blather reporting on what is turning to be a beautiful day for a peace ceremony here on the steps of the Capitol here in Washington…"**

Blather's speech is cut short and the already familiar voice-over continues:

**"****He was there, too. He saw it, too. And he thought he knew the truth, too. Now he knows he was wrong. During his investigation Channel Six' special reporter Stan Blather uncovered facts which prove irrefutably that everything previously spoken or written about these events was just a smoke screen concealing the truth. Stan Blather knows it now. Soon you will know it, too…"**

Tense music, which stopped while Blather was talking and resumed as soon as the voice-over began, is replaced with faster, not depressing, and more invigorating theme of the new show which, according to large bulgy letters on the wall of the studio appearing on the screen, was called 'Stan Blather's Special Investigation'. And here is the reporter himself sitting at the desk to the right from the letters and serving a living proof of how the discovery of truth affects the man. Comparing to his self from the Peace Ceremony's time, Stan grew much heavier in the face, and his lips no longer bulged but were firmly pressed, and his eyes were no longer squinted but opened wide suggesting plainly that this man isn't afraid of what he sees. His firm and calm voice matched his image.

**"****Don't miss today's 'Special Investigation'. It's time to come down to earth with a bang!"**

The final resonant chord is heard and the program logo in 3-D flies from the depth of the screen finishing the video but not the script.

**"****Stan Blather's Special Investigation: The Capitol Incident. Right after the commercial break on your local WBC network channel…"**

Without listening on which frequencies the Blather's revelations would reach the West Coast audience, Chip dashed to the phone. If its buttons were smaller he would have hard time dialing the correct number.

"You called, Chip?" Gadget shouted looking out of the workshop's balcony. A cracked box with spilled out parts and her husband puffing hard at the phone alarmed her greatly. "Chip?! What's wrong?!"

Chip didn't bother to answer until he finished dialing. Only when he finally hit the call button he looked at his wife. "Gadget, I must—"

The ending of his phrase was drowned by a thunderous 'SMO-O-OKE ON THE WA-A-ATER'. The comparative size of Rescue Rangers and mobile phones made it hard for the former to use the built-in speakers of the latter, so the phone's loudspeaker was on and disgorged the powerful basses of the rock anthem. _He's been having the phone for only three days and already changed the ringing tone!_ Chip thought furiously but could do nothing about it.

Fortunately Dale quickly picked up the phone. "Yeah?"

"Change the ringing tone to something adequate, Dale!"

"Oh, that's you, Chip. What're you going to surprise me with this time? Just be quick about it, we're patrolling equatorium."

"Aquatorium."

"Whatever."

"Do you have a TV there?"

Dale snorted. "Of course, we always bring one with us. It's so convenient for fish blasting, you know!"

"I'm serious, Dale!"

"We don't have it with us. There is one on the base. We're in Brooklyn, not in the Stone Age."

"Abandon everything and run to the TV! There will be an important program on Channel Six!"

"Chip, I don't care about your favorite 'Mid-Texas Murders', you know that!"

"You do care about this one!" Chip shouted. "We all care!"

Gadget jumped on the slide and rode down.

"What do you mean?" Dale asked.

"They are about to tell the truth about the Peace Ceremony events!"

Gadget dropped her wrench.

Judging by the sounds from the phone, Dale dropped something, too. "Truth? What truth? Truth about what?"

"How do I know?! I've just seen the announcement!"

"Okay, okay…" Dale became confused and was not angry anymore. "Oh boy, oh boy… What channel?! What time?!"

"Channel Six, right after the commercial break! Be quick!"

"Yes, yes, got it, okay, me and Foxy will be in the TV, erhm, by the TV, yes! We should tell the others!"

"I'll call them now."

"We should tell Gadget, too… Oh, wait, there's no phone there… I know! I'll ask Foxy to fly to her! We're close to the airport now—"

"No need, Dale," Chip looked at his wife. "She's here, with me. Everything's okay."

"Really?" It was hard to tell from Dale's voice how he met the news. "Well, that's… I'm glad! No, really! Chip, you know—"

"Thanks for the support, Dale!" Chip interrupted him. "We're alright! Channel Six! Say hi to Foxy! Bye!"

Chip hung up, stepped up to Gadget and embraced her for the first time since the night quarrel. The mouse flinched as if expecting some catch, but then enclasped his neck and buried her nose in his cheek.

"Forgive me," Chip whispered.

"Chip, I…"

"It's good you went down. I shouted but you didn't answer and I was afraid to miss something important and didn't run to get you."

"Listen, Chip. Dale, he—"

"I know he has nothing to do with this. It's my fault. I behaved like a complete… Like an idiot, in short. I must confess I… I don't know, what came over me but I was inadequate and… It won't repeat again, I promise!"

Gadget sniffled. "Chip, listen, I…"

"Please, Gadget," Chip patted her back soothingly and drew back to see her face. "Don't cry. Everything's alright! I understand you perfectly, and I had been you I would have called an old friend and not Crow Express, too. Forgive me for not believing you when I must have. You were right. After everything we went through I had no right not to believe you."

"And I—" Gadget wanted to answer but didn't have enough time. Chip leaned to her, their lips met and all the troubles and worries took backseat, albeit for a short time.

"We should call Monty," Chip whispered into Gadget's ear when they took a break to catch their breath. "Warn them so they won't miss it. I feel we can't miss it."

"What did they mean when they said they discovered the truth, what do you think? What if they… what if they found out that I was in that box and not that rat? That I wanted to—"

Gadget shivered and closed her eyes. Some topics stay hard to discuss no matter how much time has passed.

"I don't know," Chip said. He would be glad to assure her that her worries were unfounded, but he couldn't do it, for, truth be told, it was the first thing he himself thought about.

"What do you think," Gadget said having braced herself, "our friends and acquaintances, they… Would they start hating me? If we… If even you…"

"Everyone will understand," Chip said shortly. "We understand that it wasn't you but a MAP. And they will understand, too. I'll talk with each of them if need be. Everything will be alright. There's another thing I am worried about."

"What's that?"

"What if they managed to uncover something about the Black Table."

The mouse reacted instantly, and Chip could feel through his clothing that every single muscle in her body hardened. He expected nothing else. Gadget's determination to put an end to this organization was second only to her fondness with technology, and only by a small margin.

"You think so?"

"I hope, my love. Well, there's no use guessing. We won't know it until we see it."

"Dunno if I can bear it."

"Don't worry, I'll be with you," Chip kissed her nose and went to call Washington.

* 6 *

Due to the 'temperature' of the materials the Blather's show advertisement was launched only ten minutes before the air. But just five minutes later almost every fifth TV in the country was switched to the local WBC station and a number of simultaneous internet-connections to the corporation's servers reached one million and a half. The presentation of the program as a 'special report' and the fact that local channels ran it instead of several ordinary and popular shows added to the clamour. The audience was not just irritated but also intrigued. "What the heck had they uncovered that it made them cancel the new episode of 'Family in the City'?" the already seated audience asked themselves. And since it was whole fifteen minutes until the highest-rated program of the competitive RHOX network, drama-reality-show 'The Academy of Tears', they didn't switch the channels yet.

Still there were no real uproar, and Tobias Jefferson's immediate superiors kept melting his phones and internet-pager. The news director got tired of repeatedly answering the same questions about why the show needed to be aired suddenly, without at least a week of announcements, right at the national level and, the scariest moment of all, why it should be live when accidents are common. But being the only one whom Stan showed the recording, Jefferson withstood the storm bravely for he had the perfect knowledge of what they were dealing with. He even used his personal safe to keep the DVD which he would personally bring to the director's cabin at the right time. Still, in television business you can never be sure, especially when handling the materials of this size. The stakes were too extreme, the price of failure was too high, and the opponents were too powerful.

"Four minutes till air!" Suzan Spaulding announced. Stan nodded and adjusted his tie for the hundredth time, provoking a flurry of emotions from Brigit who despaired of trying to set her ward's collar straight.

"Three minutes…!"

"Okay, okay! Enough!" Stan jerked his head nervously indicating the assistant that she was close to smothering him.

"I beg you, Stan! Don't touch it! Forget about it!"

"Okay, okay! I'll try…!"

"Two minutes…!"

Blather adjusted his cuffs, pulled down the folds of his jacket and turned around to check if any letter had fallen off the backing.

"One minute…! Intro started…!"

No matter how much Stan, Tobias Jefferson and others involved in the program's making worried of its success, their trepidation couldn't match the feelings of seven rodents and one fly watching the red-blue digital fabric on the screen in three different locations. Dale and Foxglove were on the WaGuS base set up in a secluded corner of a warehouse under Manhattan Bridge. 'The Washington Four' settled down on a top shelf in an electronics supermarket TV section where they could watch many screens at one over the heads of numerous gawkers. Chip and Gadget sat on the sofa in the HQ's living room and worried more than all their friends combined.

"Stan, five seconds!" Spaulding announced showing the reporter five sprayed fingers. Then she clenched her fist and unclenched all her fingers but the thumb. Then all but the thumb and the pinky… Blather glanced askance at the camera descending from the ceiling. Coming down to earth with a bang has begun. He felt exactly like before his very first on-the-spot commentary. But that report had a tape delay, and he could always try another take…

"Two!" Suzan shouted showing Stan a victory sign. Just like Steele did when he was seated, sweating with tension and heat from floodlights, getting ready to greet the audience for the first time as the new evening news co-host. The age difference between Steele and him was almost the same as between him and Spaulding now… Realizing that it was him who ought to cheer her up being older and more experienced, he regained his confidence which seemed gone forever and recalled 'the Steel Lady's words: 'Smile at the camera, say hello to the audience and don't shut your mouth until I allow you to!'

Suzy waved her hand, and from this moment on Stan was the only one in the studio who could tell and show anything.

"Good evening, America, it's Special Investigation and your no less special reporter Stan Blather!"

Lonny giggled guardedly, while Spaulding frowned and wagged her finger at Stan requesting him to stick with the script. But the reporter pretended he saw nothing. First, a bit of self-irony is never a bad thing; on the contrary, it will pep you up. Second, as Steele had put it, nobody on the other side of the camera knows what your script reads, so tiny pangs will do you good by calming you down and making your connection with the audience stronger.

"The Peace Ceremony in Washington. I'm sure you remember that day. As for me I remember it perfectly. The weather was great, and people were happy. And everybody waited for something. Something special. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the whole America followed the Fareed J'quai's Tour of Peace, and when he arrived at Washington to sign the peace treaty between our countries, we all knew the darkness was dispelled once and for all. I vividly remember the spirit hovering over the capital; the spirit of freedom, peace, hope, and a very rare and very specific kind of confidence. Confidence that on a day like this nothing bad can happen. It just can't happen because it can't ever happen."

Stan pauses allowing the director at the console to work his magic. Just one button pressed, and when the host speaks again, his voice accompanies the memorable footage from the square in front of the Capitol.

"But, as we all remember, destiny had other plans."

The end of his phrase coincides with Tress screaming.

...

"I still can't understand how did you know I was there?" Gadget asked watching the box carried by the First Daughter falling on the ground.

Chip shrugged. "Intuition." He thought it would be wise not to mention the role of Tress' smell in this story. "But, between the two of us, the best position was under the podium."

Gadget nodded positively. "Agreed. Too bad it was installed after I had wormed my way into the Capitol."

"Oh, no questions, then."

...

Meanwhile the commotion on the screen recedes and a black-haired man appears on the screen, his heavy features, dark skin and chubby lips giving out his African descent. "Ahem, uhm… Everything's alright, folks — we just have a few mischievous chipmunks and mice up here. Apparently showing their support, I guess— Heh, heh— False alarm…"

The crowd calms down a little, and the President, slightly trodden by his vigilant security, steps up to the microphone again. "Sorry, folks. I guess the little bigger was looking for an intern," he says, obviously hinting at the scandal with his predecessor. The joke succeeds and takes the strain off.

"Basically," Blather sums it up, "that's all we were told back then…"

...

"Yeah, buddy!" Monterey Jack exclaimed turning to Zipper sitting on a nearby microwave oven. "Looks like you heroic dive went unnoticed again!"

The fly buzzed something along the lines of "well, don't I know it…"

"Just like you shocker, Sparks!" Tammy added. In contrast to Chip, Sparky didn't mind her folksy manners at all. On the other hand, he didn't always notice it.

"Ah? Shocker? Mine? Don't remember having it in Washington."

"But why?" the squirrel asked in surprise. "You soldered it together in my presence!"

"In your presence? Oh, yeah, right! The small one? I thought you were talking about the large one!"

"What one?"

"What one what?"

"What large one?"

"Large one? I don't know. Why do you ask?"

Say what you like, but Sparky was a great secret keeper.

...

Stan appears on the screen again, but not the present one. It's the then-Stan speaking from the podium in front of the Capitol. "Well, we're back, and things have calmed down here considerably— President Logan adding some light-hearted remarks preceding Chairman J'quai's moving speech just now, and I do believe that Parahk J'quai and the First Daughter finally have the stage…"

The today's Blather echoes back. "As we all remember, the ceremony continued soon like nothing ever happened. The treaty was signed and the Peace Dove was released…"

Two girls are on the screen again, but this time Parahk is holding the box as a precaution against what-not. But it's Tress who is honored with throwing the 'dove' in the air. It quickly flies up leaving a barely visible powdered trail…

...

"You held the fort superbly, Foxy!" Dale observed with the widest smile he was capable of.

They sat in the middle of a long bench, the first in the row of several others forming the ground of the WaGuS base mess-hall accompanied by almost all the members of this vigilante group. Only a few animals patrolling the perimeter were absent.

"Thanks, cutie!" the bat embraced him, but then a little mouse kid everybody called Mouse who was sitting right behind them and could hear everything, wedged himself between them. "Wait, wait! You mean that this dove is actually Miss Foxglove?!"

"Yes," the chipmunk acknowledged. "Personally, in the flesh and with a little touch of flour!"

"But it was Mister Dale's idea!" Foxglove giggled embracing her favorite rodent again.

"And they bought it?" a slate-gray dove named Dozer who sat on the floor not too far away asked suspiciously.

"Well," Dale giggled nervously trying to get out from under his girlfriend's wings, "everybody knows that humans are the dumbest animals out there!"

"They don't look like ones, but I believe it now!" the bird agreed, adding quietly: "They must be really blind! There're no similarities between us! Not to mention she's at least two times smaller!"

...

"It seemed the case was closed," Blather continues having returned to the screen. "But if you look closer you'll see that something's missing. Or rather, someone."

The reporter lifts his right hand and points his finger into an empty space. It's empty only in a real world, though, but video signal digital enhancement technology works its regular magic and the audience sees the ceremony feed there, which quickly enlarges to fill the entire screen. Fareed once again finishes his speech, the President again quietly tells girls something, the 'dove' flies again…

"But where's the First Lady?" Blather inquires, striking the multimillion audience's attention like a skillful fisherman. And when every viewer asks himself that question but hasn't lifted his hands in dismay yet acknowledging his inability to find the answer, the ambulance van appears on the screen. It drives out on Constitution Avenue accompanied by two police motorcycles, and Stan explains helpfully: "She's currently in this car rushing to her workplace at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. There, being Surgeon General of the United States Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, she is about to conduct the most difficult and most unusual surgical operation in her entire career and save a heavily injured chipmunk. As the Peace Dove rises above the Capitol, the surgery is fully underway…"

...

"Golly, Chip," Gadget whispered squeezing Chip's paw. "You know, I almost went mad there while they were operating you. It would be hard just sitting in a corner feeling your absolute powerlessness. But listening to doctors' conversations, those dry phrases they exchanged about your state… When the First Lady's assistant began to enumerate your damaged organs, I— I almost died there…"

"It's OK, dear," Chip hushed into her ear barely refraining from a yell of pain. Gadget obviously forgot how strong she was now and gripped his paw too mightily. "I'm right here, with you, and I'm not going anywhere…"

"Chip, you must know—"

"Gadget, trust me, I understand you perfectly! When we thought you perished, I almost died, too… Oh, look!" he pointed at the screen displaying his first public appearance.

...

Chip's discharge from the hospital is covered on a scale comparable with Academy Wards' red carpet and is arranged in similar fashion. The red rag is rolled from the main entrance to the presidential motorcade's stop and barriers are set up on both sides with the press herding behind them. The emergence of the First Family from the building is met with a thunder of cheers and jabbering of cameras, and every self-respecting cameraman tries to shove his lens into the blanket covering the main hero of the occasion who is still too weak and thus sleeps through the whole thing.

...

"He's so cute!" Tammy giggled. The Channel Six cameraman knew his craft and managed to get a close-up of the furry nubbin among the wrinkles. The squirrel wasn't the only one who felt like that. All the women in the room sighed with adoration, and some shaggy youth, apparently a student, shouted "He's cool as ice!" His friends responded with encouraging laughter, but the four Rescue Rangers had to admit the choice of words was somewhat poor.

...

"But the First Lady is not the only one we have to thank for this miraculous salvation. The day the chipmunk was delivered to the hospital, late at night, there was a mighty explosion in the ward across the corridor, resulting in the death of Reginald MacMillan, Head of Special Defences for the CIA."

The reporter's tragic tone is perfectly matched by the documentary's next episode featuring a slow moving funeral procession with a coffin on an open hearse covered by the state flag.

"According to official version, Mister MacMillan unofficially supervised the security detail guarding the chipmunk. One of the security measures he devised was the swapping of signs on the ward doors, which ultimately confused the malefactors and saved the animal. According to the investigation team's report, a single stranger or an unknown number of strangers, dressed as the hospital staff, infiltrated the ward where MacMillan was laying in wait. The shootout using silenced weapons ensued, during which one bullet hit an oxygen tank on the wall causing it to detonate and kill Reginald MacMillan who, by tragic accident, happened to be the closest person to it. Using the mayhem that followed as their cover, the felons escaped in the unknown direction, and the tightened security of the heroic chipmunk's ward prevented any further attempts on his life…"

...

The Rescue Rangers kept a close eye on the investigation and knew the contents of all the official documents, but still couldn't refrain from rancid comments. As usual, the most hectic reaction was Dale's. "Yeah, sure! Heard that?! They're lying through their teeth! Mulder and Scully should get them, I'm telling you! The door signs affair alone is enough!"

"You mean it was you who swapped them?" Mouse asked, overfilled with self-importance. He was on friendly footing with the Rescue Rangers themselves!

"Of course, who else?" Dale got up from the bench and turned to face the sitting WaGuS members, his arms akimbo. "It was my idea! Do you know that the whole plot of the recent thriller movie 'The Sign Plates' revolves around the door signs swapping? And the scriptwriters openly say that they were 'inspired by the heroic deed of Reginald MacMillan'! Of course, how else could it be? That's the reason they ascribed everything to him!"

"What do you mean?" Foxglove expressed their common confusion.

"They took it out on a dead man to avoid paying royalties for the idea!" Dale announced. "If only people knew the truth—"

"Looks like they will soon," Foxy observed. Dale turned around and sat right where he stood. A painfully familiar face of Dr. Snow was looking at him from the screen.

...

"Who is this man, you might want to ask," Blather speaks. He has become so engrossed by the show by now that he totally forgot about both the script and the teleprompter. "And what is his part in this case, apparently fully resolved and closed a long time ago? True, there's no place for him or his associates or the project he led in the official version. But is the official version really that comprehensive? For instance, the chipmunk incident — what was it? Somebody's practical joke? Or is it something bigger? After all, the Capitol security shot it with the gun used to put tigers to sleep. Don't you think it's a little too big an honor for such a small animal? And why was such a small animal personally guarded by such a high-ranking agent as Reginald MacMillan? And what about this strange cult, for lack of better word, of chipmunk-haters, who dared to sneak into the United States main military hospital and, more importantly, managed to escape it unnoticed? Don't look for the answers for these questions in the official documents, they aren't there. But we've got them, and after a commercial break you'll have them, too! Stay tuned!"

Having received acknowledgement that the intro was airing, Spaulding waved at Blather who immediately dropped his head on the table as if Susan cut the ropes which held him upright all along.

"No-no, Stan! Don't sleep! More life! You still have three quarters of the program ahead of you!"

"You think anyone's still watching it?" the host asked lifting his head. "I'm sure I tired out everyone I hadn't scared off."

"Drop it, Stanley, you gave it to them!" Lonny shouted from behind the camera. "Maybe you should consider changing your image? I think you should change your name to Stan the Flamy! If business thrives, you'll owe me commission for the idea!"

"I don't think it makes any sense…"

"I don't think so, too!" Suzan spoke again. "You're doing great even without it! The Old Guard asked me to tell you the audience is growing like an avalanche, and it has almost reached the top ten most high-ranking shows in the history of WBC ratings calculations, and the load of our servers is already two times higher than the previous season's best result! You've intrigued them, Stan! So cheer up, I don't want to see such a sour puss until the end of the show! Is it clear?"

"Chrystal clear!" Stan smiled, and Spaulding gave him two thumbs up. She was usually scant for gestures, and this deviation from the rules definitely meant something. But not as much as a vibration phone signal in Tobias Jefferson's pocket. It caught the news director exactly halfway between the director's cabin and his office. A single short vibe meaning a simple text message received. But this time the crudeness was no goodness. If the opponents of the show, and Tobias could feel with his skin that the message was sent by them, chose such a simple way of influencing him, they surely made it count…

And yet the message was far from the heights of the horror fiction. It was only five lines long. "Reschedule the rest of the program for some other day and then cancel it quietly. It would be better for everyone."

Nervous tension didn't keep Jefferson from smiling ironically. "Cancel it quietly…" He wondered if his opponents were truly one brick shy of a full load or just feigned it masterfully. On the other hand, it matched their style. Overblow a scandal first, then say 'No comments!' with blank faces. But you can't do that in TV business. If he cancels the program now, Channel Six and the whole WBC network will lose all the trust, not to mention his superiors will simply crush him. Even if he suddenly wished to stop the program, he wouldn't be able to do it, and if they don't understand it, then they are simply—

Jefferson dashed along the corridor scaring the studio workers who happened to be there. Flying past Gladys who missed her lips with lipstick, he ran into his office expecting to find it ransacked and his wall safe cracked open with its door hanging on the fringes. But everything was in order except a few papers thrown off the table by the air flow, and the painting covering the safe seemed untouched as well.

His legs barely bending, Tobias approached the painting and carefully pulled a frame's edge. Anything could be behind it, from grenade to a simple hole in the wall in place of the armored door. But the safe was here; moreover, it was locked and without any traces of cracking attempts. The sloping buttons glittered under the lamps, and the LCD invited to enter a ten-digit code only the owner knew. Or those who knew him through and through. And although Jefferson chose a completely random combination of numbers, senseless in both digital and literal forms, he was opening the safe slowly and in alarm.

Unlocking the door, Tobias took out a disk case lying on top. Seeing it was empty, he almost had a heart attack, but quickly remembered that he put it here as a decoy, and the disk was hidden in one of the document folders into a cavity cut out through several paper sheets.

At first Jefferson wanted to find some more secretive place than his own safe which would be the first to be searched. He even studied the width of cisterns in WCs and the depth of flower beds in the hall. But in the end he concluded that safe was the most reliable solution, for it was harder to sneak into his office and crack the safe than take the disk out of a cistern in a public WC. Then again, it was easier and safer for him to check the disk's presence without leaving his office than run to WC from time to time, wait until nobody was there (which was a rare occurrence in this building), dig in the cistern, and then go back, asking himself if he broke down something, if he put the lid back correctly, and if he made some other of fifty or so possible mistakes which could draw unwanted attention to this particular cistern…

"Mister Jefferson?" his secretary carefully called as she glanced into his room after spending almost a minute wiping a wide red strip off her cheek. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Gladys, yes, thank you!" Jefferson quickly calmed her. Putting the folder with the disk under his arm, he quickly closed the safe and left his office. Exactly two minute remained until the end of the commercial break, and he spent one third of this time to reach the director's cabin, and then another one third — to insert the disk into a player and check that all the materials are there.

"Mister Jefferson!" the program director shouted. "We're starting! Everything OK?"

"Yes, proceed!"

"Okay!" the director turned to his console and spoke into the air addressing Spaulding via intercom. "Studio, fifteen seconds!"

"Got it!" Susan responded and repeated the info for Blather. "Come on, Stan!"

"More life, I remember," Blather wiped his eyes. "You can't forget that…"

It was hard to forget that, indeed, just like the first part of the program which stopped thundering only several minutes ago. But, minding those who have switched to the WBC channels just now, Stan begins the second part with a short review of the previously laid out facts accompanied by the shortened footage selection for better knowledge digestion.

"United States Capitol. The Peace Ceremony. A chipmunk running out on the stage scares the First Daughter about to release the white dove and almost ruins the ceremony. Security personnel, alarmed by this strange invasion, try to catch the chipmunk, which ends up in the Walter Reed Army Medical Center on the operating table after having been pierced with a tranquilizer dart. Laura Logan, the First Lady and the Surgeon General of US PHSCC, personally oversees his salvation. The whole country watches it with sinking hearts, and when the chipmunk regains consciousness after a few days, everybody rejoices. Confusion, thrill and miraculous recovery — what else do you need to have a beautiful and captivating story? Almost nothing. Just one tiny little bit…"

A long pause during which the footage rewinds again, accelerating until the scenes become indiscernible.

"Truth," Blather finishes his thought, and the picture freezes on the frame which concluded the first part of the program. A short man with a large bald spot wearing round Lennon glasses on his hooked nose and an austere suit. Cold stare, haughty smile. A worthy candidate for the part of Dirk Suave's next nemesis.

"Meet Archibald Joseph Snow, MD and PhD in Physiology. I doubt his name tells you anything, although under slightly different circumstances it would have long become a public fare and a part of the World Science Golden Fund."

The unknown scientist gives screen place to the photo of three of his much more widely known colleagues, smiling beamy and demonstrating the audience their boxes containing the most famous and prestigious scientific medals.

"This is a group of scientists who were awarded the 2000 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for, I'm citing here, 'for their discoveries concerning signal transduction in the nervous system'; in other words, for their research of the mechanism of nerve signals transmission. The rightmost one is Swede, the other two — Americans. All of them are renowned gurus in their field, but right now we're most interested in the man in the center. He is not only a famous biophysicist and neurosurgeon, but also a colleague of our hero, Doctor Archibald Snow. They had been studying the physiological principles of information and knowledge accumulation in neurons together since the mid-eighties, and achieved some truly outstanding results distinguished with several prestigious awards and prizes, including Nobel Prize".

Pause. Breathe in. Continue.

"But why Doctor Snow is absent from this photo, then? Partially because the Nobel Prize rules allow awarding no more than three people at once, so someone had to go in any case. But the most important reason is that a few years earlier Doctor Snow officially ceased working on this project, left his position of professor in Center of Neurobiology and Behavior at Columbia University, and became a head of laboratory at Horizon Pharmaceutical Corporation."

Blather waits until the photo of Snow wearing academic gown and cap gives place to Horizon Corporation logo and continues.

"Surely there's nothing wrong with this transition. The author of the farewell article devoted to Doctor Snow in Columbia University Bulletin rightfully noted that he was by far not the first prominent scientist who went to work in private sector. And it's hard not to agree. That is, if you ignore the fact that in this particular case it was the other way around. Columbia University is private, while the research at Horizon Corporation is financed by a separate line in the United States Federal Budget, and two thirds of its board of directors is comprised of the former government officials, including three former senators and one former Deputy Secretary of State. On the other hand, the University Professor's salary is much smaller than wage of head of laboratory belonging to a large corporation. So the Doctor Snow's motives are clear. But there is still one question: where is this laboratory located? Or rather, where was it located?"

There is nothing special about the buildings on the screen. They are just ordinary parallelepipeds of glass and concrete, thousands of which are scattered around the country and the whole world. In addition, the cameraman is shooting them in broad daylight and from behind the fence on the opposite side from the gates, but Rescue Rangers still recognize them instantly and shiver, for a few seconds going back to that distant night full of rescues, falls and returns from the other side…

"The complex you're seeing on the screen is situated approximately eighty miles south of New York and twelve miles away from the nearest highway. It's occupied by a canned vegetables factory at the moment, and its owners have absolutely no idea who the previous owners were. And you know what? I believe them! For we are dealing with the most large-scale cover-up in the history of our country! Don't believe me? You'll see it yourselves soon."

The image of buildings is blurred and a paper sheet image appears against them. It gradually enlarges until the text is clearly visible.

"Here is the letter from FBI's New York branch to the managers of Bio-Tech company informing of withdrawal by the Bureau agents of two documents with indexes IN-M:03-4522 and OU-M:03-4522-a01 as evidence for the case of, I'm citing here, 'the highest state priority'. A vague formula we're hearing very often as of late, aren't we? The date also stands out…" the respective part of the text separates from the sheet and enlarges to fill the screen. "Note that it's just two days after the Peace Ceremony! Coincidence? Who knows… So what were the contents of these documents? This question will be answered by the Board Chairman of Bio-Tech, Elijah Wasserman, MD…"

...

"Uhm, Sparky?" Tammy said thoughtfully. "Isn't that your…"

"Yeah, that's my boss!" the scientist confirmed. The answer wasn't a correct one for Wasserman would be very surprised to find out he was the boss for a simple rat, one of hundreds kept in his laboratories. They were legitimate participants of the working routine only in lab workers' jokes like 'Where should we attach the rod today, Bronco? Head or tail? You shook your head? Rod to the head, then…' And if Wasserman knew that one of his rodent 'subordinates' was in Washington watching the Stan Blather's show like he was, the apoplexy would be imminent.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"No, of course not! I have a foolproof alibi! Glimmer substitutes me."

"Wouldn't humans notice?"

"What?"

"That Glimmer substitutes you?" the squirrel repeated patiently.

"Glimmer?" Sparky got lost in thought, than slapped his forehead. "Oh, right! Poor sod, I told him I'd be back in two days, and it's almost four now… Still, it's not the first time, and he likes all those resonance traps."

Tammy was still worried. "And humans won't notice the change?"

"Humans? No, never! We're all the same for them!"

...

"These documents were two letters," Wasserman tells the audience, his image laid over the virtual document. "The first was an invitation for cooperation from a company named Eastern Pharmaceuticals."

"What is this company?" Blather's voice asks. He was the interviewer and got caught on camera just a few times, and all of those got cut out.

"It was the first time I heard about it, but the letter's authors presented themselves as one of subsidiaries of 'a very large pharmaceutical corporation, financed by US government', so we thought we were dealing with Horizon Corporation."

"You are implying that Horizon Corporation is financed by US government, did I get it right?"

"Well," Wasserman smiles widely, making his broad beard seem even wider, "it's a private enterprise on paper, but the line-up of their Board of Directors and generous allotments from the federal budget allow presuming that your words are closer to the truth."

"I see. And what was the letter about?"

"The letter was an invitation for cooperation."

"What kind of cooperation?"

"We were offered to lend them samples of rodentia manifesting above-average intelligence in exchange for assistance with developing some of our projects, in particular, a new sedative drug. I repeat, before that day I've never heard about this company, but Horizon is justly famous with their research in the field of psychotropics, so if they really were linked to Horizon, this offer was truly enticing."

"Did they say what exactly they needed those rodents with above-average intelligence for?"

"No. It was only the first letter, it contained no details. Actually, some time ago there were rumors about Horizon building a whole network of semi-clandestine laboratories in various states to conduct large-scale experiments not always comely from ethical and animal welfare viewpoints as a part of some top-secret military projects. But, again, those were only rumors which were never supported by documentary evidence."

"How do you think, Eastern Pharmaceuticals could be a cover for one of those clandestine labs?"

"If such labs really exist or existed, there's nothing impossible about it."

"I see. And the second letter?"

"The second letter contained our answer to their proposal."

"And what was your answer?"

"Refusal."

"Really? Why?"

Wasserman adjusts his glasses. "Cooperation with suspicious companies, even if they hide behind such giants as Horizon, is against our rules."

Actually, originally Elijah said 'especially if they are linked to Horizon', and when Blather asked him to explain, he heard a long and detailed story which had to be cut because the program's timeline was finite, and it had only indirect relation to the topic. But, more importantly, it deserved a separate journalistic investigation, for the Bio-Tech head very vividly described the misadventures of two companies, Flora-Nova and Allermed, which agreed to cooperate with the pharmaceutical giant at their peril.

The former received documentation for a new perspective antidepressant from Horizon in exchange for technology of a revolutionary anti-obesity drug. The antidepressant turned out ripe with side effects, Flora-Nova received a flurry of multimillion lawsuits and went bankrupt, and then its market niche of shape preserving drugs was quickly occupied by Horizon.

As for Allermed, they signed an agreement with Horizon about joint development of a next-generation vaccine. But then Horizon through their lobby in Food and Drug Administration got the new vaccine banned. They lost many millions of dollars because of it, but the giant corporation endured, while Allermed was devastated, for, according to contract, they not only received half of the profits from vaccine sales but also had to pay half of the expenses to create and advertise it. As a result, Allermed was forced to merge with Horizon on crippling terms, including abandonment of their well-promoted trademark as 'clouded with failure'…

But Wasserman agreed to keep this off the stage for now, and the voice of today's Blather is heard again. "Note that we tried to get a commentary about Eastern Pharmaceuticals from the Horizon management, including their CEO Gordon Brightman. Speaking via the phone, Doctor Brightman said that he knew nothing about this company or any investigations concerning it, and that his corporation never contacted Bio-Tech with any business proposals. Then Mister Brightman hung up and evaded the face-to-face interview under pretext of being very busy. Draw your own conclusions."

Having said that, Stan allows Doctor Wasserman and his recorded self to continue.

"The FBI agents who performed the documents withdrawal, did they explain what exactly they were investigating?"

"They said they were investigating the operations of Eastern Pharmaceuticals in connection with numerous complaints against their products."

"What do you think about it?"

"As I said before, prior to receiving this letter I never heard of this firm or its products or, moreover, of lawsuits against it. And such scandals become quickly known to everyone working in the field and are widely publicized in the press. So you should be better informed about it."

"Agreed. But I must admit that I hear about this company for the first time, too. But now I consider myself obliged to find out as much about it as possible. Do you have its address by chance?"

"Sorry, but no. There was no address on the envelope, just a number of post office box in New York."

"Did you keep it?"

"No. FBI confiscated not only paper but digital copies as well and threatened to sue us if they surface anywhere."

"So you don't remember the POB number."

The head of Bio-Tech squints cleverly. "But I do."

"After so much time? You memory must be phenomenal! Aren't you afraid that FBI won't believe it and will sue you for keeping the copies?"

"I'm not afraid at all. I remembered it solely because, if combined with the postal code, it exactly matched my social security number. If FBI wish, they can check and see I'm not lying."

"What a miraculous coincidence!"

"Exactly!" Wasserman smile and disappears from the screen along with the letter and the buildings, giving way to rows of similar grey boxes with carefully covered numbers.

"Here is the box," the reporter comments from beyond the screen. "Respecting Mister Wasserman's privacy, we won't show or tell the number. According to the post office records, the number of which we won't reveal either, the box was rented by one Peter Erskine who paid in cash. No traces and no mentions of Eastern Pharmaceuticals, Horizon Corporation or Doctor Archibald Snow. Who is this mysterious Mister Erskine? I'm sure you'll be surprised to know he was in open view for all this time."

After these words the scene of the Peace Dove failed launch attempt is played on the screen again. The accent is made on the Secret Service agents dashing to save the President. Standing out among them is a gaunt man in black suit with no traces of hair on his head, encircled in thick red frame for additional clarity.

"Meet Russell Keith Ferrante. He is from CIA, like MacMillan, but he began in Secret Service, has a solid background and participated in the Peace Ceremony as an invited experience-sharing expert. His full career is top secret, but still we can tell you something interesting about him. We managed to find a post office worker who processed the request to use this particular post box, and when we showed her a photo of Mister Ferrante, she positively identified him as the box's owner, Peter Erskine. Maybe she confused him with somebody else or made it up, you may say. It's possible. But the materials in our possession clearly show the connection between him, Doctor Archibald Snow and Reginald MacMillan."

The screen turns white and three photos appear one by one in its upper part: Snow, MacMillan in his decorated parade military uniform and Ferrante whose official portrait couldn't be obtained so an enlarged footage shot had to be used. A black question mark appears underneath the photos and enlarges quickly to fill the lower part of the screen.

"What makes us consider the existence of this connection? How is the mysterious FBI investigation, completely unrelated to the Peace Ceremony incident at first glimpse, linked with it? And most important — what this incident is really about? Do we know everything? Did we see everything? The answer seems obvious, for these events were widely covered by the press. Even documentary about the events was released and it seems nothing can be added to what was already shown and told. But that's only at first glimpse. Or rather, at a glimpse from the common angle. But we will look at it from another angle; with different eyes, so to speak."

...

"Go!" Jefferson ordered. "Player Five, file ."

The program director's chubby fingers gracefully danced over the console. Tobias leaned back on his seat and stared at the ceiling. He waited the CIA to make their next move, but his phone was silent, and the building didn't seem to collapse. The strategy of secrecy till the very last moments proved effective, and the cumbersome state machine didn't have time to react to a crippling blow from mass media armed with not only the latest telecommunication technologies but also with the man's eternal yearning to know the truth and tell it to everyone else.

They lost. By letting 'David' slip and underestimating impact of Blather's actions they missed their chance to influence the events. Anything they could do would only worsen the situation and serve another acknowledgement that everything was true. They could only gnash their teeth in impotent rage hoping that journalists hadn't dig out everything, that they would exaggerate or tell a fib, making themselves exposed for counterpropaganda and defamation actions in defense of honor and dignity.

_As if they have anything to defend…_ Jefferson thought and smiled triumphantly. He could afford a smile. According to network monitor data, quantity of viewers the Blather's show attracted came close to the live broadcast of WTC collapse and became one of the Top-5 most high-ranked investigatory programs in the history of television, living up to hopes with a vengeance.

And making Rescue Rangers' worst fears come true…

...

"We received this recording from confidential but fully credible source. It was made by a security camera in the Capitol on the Peace Ceremony day in between the appearance of the chipmunk on the stage and the Peace Dove being released. Warning: the video you are about to see is not for the faint of heart. Let's watch it."

At first the lay public is baffled by the image on the screen for it shows nothing but a solid wall in the end of some circular corridor like on a space station. The 'space origin' impression is further reinforced by a bright white light and four thick pipes running into the aforementioned wall. But then footsteps are heard, someone's shadow flashes on the side of the 'wall', and it becomes clear that the camera is installed on the ceiling, and the 'wall' is not a wall but a floor of some round hall, and the 'pipes' are really columns. Based on the sounds heard, there are several runners, three at least, and the camera's stereo microphone allows to determine they are running from one direction in tight group.

Then a loud exclamation is heard: "Ah! There they are!"

The audience expects to see humans, and at first nobody notices three small blots appearing in the left part of the screen. One is pink with dark stripe in the middle, the other two are white. The pink blot moves fast and unpredictably, and it seems it should easily lose the two larger and bulkier blots. And it certainly would if it weren't for its long tail which the smarter pursuer grabs in jump, allowing his partner to approach their victim from the side and grab it by the front legs. The chase is over and it is now possible to discern what it is exactly. And although the camera in installed high above the ground, its optics are powerful enough to understand that the white blots are large rats, and the pink blot is a mouse wearing or painted with something dark.

"Wow! I wonder if all the rats can do that!" the guy who had previously called Chip 'cool as ice' exclaimed. Everybody hushed at him for three humans step out on the 'arena'.

Their faces are not visible but it's impossible not to recognize them. A stout man with large bald patch on his head armed with a device closely resembling netbook is a copy of Doctor Snow, while his stalwart and broad-shouldered partner with a pipe in his mouth and a long black rifle with a sniping scope in his arms is the spitting image of the Head of Special Defences for the CIA. Ferrante who came empty-handed is also easily recognizable.

"I bet you recognized all the three," Blather inserts his comment. "Archibald Snow, Reginald MacMillan and Russell Ferrante in the same place in the same time. What are they doing here? You'll find out soon."

And the security camera resumes its detached tale.

"Okay, Ferrante, you're the crack-shot here," MacMillan says handing his gun over to the presidential guard.

"What?" Ferrante is astonished. "With that thing? We hunting rhino today?"

"You'll tear her in half with those darts!" Snow shouts running up to the CIA representative and grabbing him by his shoulders. "Don't do it! She's too valuable!"

"Got a good price for her services on the black market, did you?" MacMillan asks sarcastically, then lifts his rifle on the scientist's face level. "Seriously… This gun is fine. Trust me. Read the handle…"

"What?" Snow adjusts his glasses and leans forward. "…Why?"

The next moment the gun butt hits his face with unpleasant crunch.

...

The people in the supermarket recoiled from the screens involuntarily.

"Oh, darn!" the restless shaggy youth sums up everyone's thoughts nicely.

...

MacMillan continues as if nothing happened. "You answer to me now, Ferrante. I'd just assume have you used your pistol. But I'm not explaining to the President why it was necessary to use firearms against mice inside the Capitol… Are we clear? …Unless you want to be indicted here with the professor."

"Crystal clear, sir," Ferrante reports accepting the gun from his superior's hands and in one swift professional motion aims it at the pink mouse held in place by the two rats…

The security camera works off every single cent spent on it. The mike catches a gun's clap, a chilling squeak, and a light tap of a small body falling on the floor pierced with a dart. The weakest watchers feel sick. The shooters fell badly, too, but not because they love animals. The body belongs to _another_ animal — a dark-brown one with a grey tubby rapidly turning reddish.

To Ferrante's credit, he postpones questions like 'what?', 'why?' and 'where did it come from?' He rapidly reloads and aims and would certainly finish his task, but then forgotten Snow reminds about himself. Having decided to fight for his creation till the very end, he grabs his former associate by the leg, the gun twitches, and the second dart flies much further to the right and hits not the mouse but one of the rats holding her by the front paws. The second rat is promptly dealt with, too, as the mouse knocks it out cold. By the time Ferrante readies his weapon for the third time, the mouse is nowhere to be seen.

Holding the gun in front of him, the shooter carefully approaches to his first victim and lift it to his eye level. "The… chipmunk?!"

"What— what?" MacMillan runs up to him. "Where's the damn mouse?!"

He shouldn't have asked. Ferrante is standing by the column in the lower right corner of the screen, obstructing the view, and when he suddenly yells and collapses clutching his left foot, thousands of viewers across the country jump up in their seats, and those watching while standing up barely manage to stay upright.

...

"It's better than 'Alien'…" the shaggy youth whispered.

...

But that wasn't all. After initial shock passes, MacMillan dashes to Ferrante and snatches his pistol from the holster under his arm. The mouse wastes no time, too, and runs towards the gun which fell on its butt and, freezing for a moment with its muzzle turned upwards, is lowering towards the last conspirator. Unfortunately, the camera's position doesn't allow seeing all the details, but the mouse obviously does something unimaginable and, carefully calculating the velocity and direction of the muzzle's movement, shoots the third and final dart precisely in the neck of already aiming MacMillan. The rifle and the pistol fall down with a rattle, the CIA agent ends up on the floor in a scenic pose…

And the recording ends.

"No comments are needed, as they say," Blather notes and it's really hard to disagree with him. "But even this phenomenal recording does not answer all the questions. What connects such different people as Doctor Archibald Snow, Reginald MacMillan and Russell Ferrante? What brought them to this hall where the Capitol security found them later along with the rifle, the pistol and the injured chipmunk? What 'black market' was MacMillan speaking about, and, more importantly, who is that mysterious 'she' he mentioned? All these questions will be answered in the final part of our Special Investigation! And now — the commercial break!"

The audience throughout the country met Blather's final phrase with universal disapproving groan, but obeyed and tried to use the pause with maximal efficiency. Some ran to the bathroom, some — to the fridge. Some kept sitting down, recovering from they had just seen, while the others writhed in hysterics…

"Now, now, Gadget," Chip kept saying pressing the shaking mouse to his chest. When Rescue Rangers sent the recording from the cassette stolen by Dale and Foxy, they mindfully cut the ending covering their role in the 'crime scene' set up. Gadget's weeping over bleeding Chip also remained off the record, but she needn't seeing them to relive everything again. "I'm here. I won't go anywhere, I promise. It's all in the past. Everything's OK. Everything will be OK…"

"Golly, Chip… I… I'm still… afraid that they… come back… That Snow, Ferrante, MacMillan… It's their project… What if they are looking for me? I'm… I'm too valuable, indeed, even without the chip, which can be easily replaced…"

"They aren't coming back," Chip shook his head resolutely, blowing away Gadget's hair fallen on his nose. "We've released all the animals that night. MacMillan is dead, and the materials you and Sparky compiled sent Snow and Ferrante behind the bars for a very long time. MAP is closed forever. You defeated them, Gadget. You laid them all down."

"Laid down, sure… Now I see… what you needed… that shocker for… It's probably the only way to… deal with me…"

"Drop it, Gadget. Let's not get into it, okay? Calm down, dear. Look, the break is over…"

...

Blather begins with summary of the first three quarters of the program. "And so we witnessed a truly spectacular scene and had an opportunity to observe a wannabe Nobel Prize winner Archibald Snow, the head of Special Defences for the CIA Reginald MacMillan and Russell Ferrante, also a CIA operative, in unexpected roles of small game hunters; small, but, as the record suggests, very-very dangerous. What kind of mouse was that, and was it even a mouse? I think we know the answer to this question.

"But first let's backtrack a little to the interview with Doctor Wasserman, head of Bio-Tech, who, as you probably remember, received a letter from some firm called Eastern Pharmaceuticals with proposal for cooperation. This unknown firm needed 'rodentia with above-average intelligence'. Does it ring any bells? I'm sure you agree that these rats and that mouse do things requiring intelligence which would be phenomenal by rodent standards. That's our first lead.

"Now let's recall Doctor Snow's career. He became an employee of Horizon Corporation, which most closely matches the image of the mysterious 'large pharmaceutical corporation, financed by US government', the part of which mysterious Eastern Pharmaceuticals claimed to be. And while the association between EP and Horizon is hard to prove on a juridical level, the association between Horizon, Doctor Snow and the Peace Ceremony incident is obvious. That's the second lead.

"Finally, the post office box rented by Russell Ferrante under the alias of Peter Erskine which was used as the return address for the letter received by Doctor Wasserman. Ferrante's presence in the room along with Doctor Snow and Mister MacMillan wasn't accidental, and there's a reason why the latter threatens him with jail if he refuses to shoot the mouse with a tranquilizer dart which is for the rodent like a whaler's harpoon to a man. What are those dire measures for? For this."

The stage on the Capitol stairs again. Here Tress opens the box, then a brown furball, that unlucky chipmunk, dashes onto her. The box flies upwards towards the sky while the President ends up on the ground…

"At this moment all the cameras turned to the podium and the President," Stan informs. "It's perfectly natural, for it was one of rare opportunities to see Secret Service agents in action. That's why some events that happened on the stage then stayed under the radar, including the fate of the Peace Dove's box the First Daughter dropped…"

...

"Wow!" Mouse exclaimed, bristling up impatiently. "Looks like even they don't know everything! Mister Dale! Miss Foxglove! Maybe you can tell us? You've been to that ceremony!"

Foxglove bit her lip and looked at Dale. Dale fidgeted his fingers nervously pretending not hearing the question.

The chiropterous Ranger took initiative in her wings. "Well, basically—" she began, but then Dale turned to her and said curtly: "Foxy, don't. Let them watch."

The bat looked at him and then at the frozen audience waiting for her answer, shrugged as if saying 'you see it yourselves' and turned away. The unanimous groan of disappointment echoed throughout the room, but the WaGuS members refrained from pressing on the eldest animal by rank if not by age among them and turned their gazes back to the TV.

"You think…?" Foxglove asked leaning to Dale's ear. The chipmunk didn't answer, but his galloping heart rate did.

"You think…?" Gadget asked Chip at roughly the same moment.

"I'm afraid it's the only explanation," Chip answered sitting almost in the same pose as his old friend. If he had his hat he would be chewing it now. But his favorite headwear was lost in that laboratory on that night so he had to settle for his collar. Fortunately for the latter, Blather didn't pause for too long, probably fearing the wrath of the people. And he had all the reasons for it. As of late, the program's audience at least doubled, and in places like Washington's electronics supermarket it even quadrupled. And the people kept coming…

...

"…Fortunately, in addition to portable cameras the Channel Six crew also had stationary cameras installed some distance away from the stage. The shots you are seeing were taken by one of them. It's embarrassing to admit but they've never been aired; they were simply overlooked. Now the time has come to correct this regrettable neglect. But first…"

Blather's already common summary for those who only recently switched to WBC channels didn't really interest the old viewers. As for the Rescue Rangers, they didn't hear it at all, crestfallen with grim prospects. Monterey Jack tried to cheer his friends up by joking that this time Zipper wouldn't dodge the limelight, but when he felt three angry regards he sulked and told his friends not to mind him. Chip asked Gadget for forgiveness for having overlooked the stationary cameras, but she was in a state of prostration and didn't react to his words at all. Dale and Foxglove sat silently, too, trying not to look around and feeling themselves not among their colleagues and mentees but on Fat Cat's dinner table, waiting with sinking hearts for Blather's standard phrase…

"See it yourselves!"

Here they are. Footage taken by an unaccounted camera installed to the right from the podium and recording the entire flight of the box encircled, like Ferrante was previously, with a red frame. The box tumbles a couple of times in the air and lands with its bottom to the camera, and even though its lid opened in midair, the audience can't see what's inside. But no, something white rolls out of it, followed by something pink with dark stripe in the middle…

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, several new objects enter the scene at once: four small white ones, two small brown ones and a large white one, its size and outlines strangely resembling pigeon's. After a moment another participant joins them; based on its colors, it's the chipmunk that started it all. All of them run towards the fallen box, the collision seems imminent…

But then the President and his bodyguards sitting around him get up and obstruct the line of sight.

...

"He always chooses a wrong moment!" the shaggy student commented sarcastically, and this time the others shared his thoughts. Rescue Rangers, on the other hand, sighed in relief.

"Yeah, Zipper-me-buddy, today's not your lucky day," Monty said with fake sorrow. "But it's okay! You were edge out by the President himself!"

Needless to say, Zipper didn't mind it at all.

...

"Phew!" Chip exhaled. "That was close! Lucky we!"

"Can't say the same of your collar," Gadget observed. "You practically ruined it! I'm afraid to think what you could do with your hat if you had one. By the way, why don't you want to find another one like that?"

Her husband just smiled in response. Their worst fears didn't come true, so he could relax a little. Besides, he always met this and similar questions with a silent smile. He didn't want to look superstitious. While his hat was with him, he couldn't even think of asking Gadget to marry him, and then he even lost her. But on that night at the lab he lost his favorite headwear and almost immediately found Gadget… It sounded silly, but at the same time there was some inner logic, and Chip had absolutely no wish to verify the reality of this interconnection in practice.

...

"Oh my, they showed nothing after all…" Mouse said with disappointment. "Mister Dale, maybe you would tell us about everything?"

"Sure thing!" Dale didn't know where to spend energy of happiness and relief overwhelming him. "I recall myself, Monty and that doughy pigeon running to—" The birds sitting along the edges of the mess hall hunched and Dale quickly added: "Well, I don't mean all the pigeons are like that, we just happened to meet the one. Typical capital, erhm, what's the word, ah, snob, yeah! So there was a—"

Foxglove patted his back. "Later, Dale! Look!"

...

Meanwhile the recording continues. The President shakes himself and adjusts his tie, while his wife, Fareed and Parahk pick up the box. The others join them obstructing everything that could be obstructed, but if you look closer you can notice that there is something white in the box. The First Lady holds an object of the same color in her hands and is visibly disturbed by her waif.

"Our image processing specialists spent much time working with the recording," Blather informs. "Unfortunately, distance from camera prevent us from seeing everything in detail, but they still made some progress. Here is the shot we managed to squeeze the most out of. The object in Mrs. Logan's hands is nothing but a medical syringe, and the box Chairman Fareed is holding contains a large white rat. It had no resemblance with the Peace Dove at all, but looks exactly like those helping Snow, Ferrante and MacMillan to catch the mouse, which, coincidentally, is that mysterious pink object with a dark stripe falling out of the box on one of the earlier shots. MacMillan and Ferrante tried to kill it, while Doctor Snow tried to save it. And you know what? His desire is perfectly understandable, for she is very precious indeed, and she is the link connecting all our 'heroes'."

Stan falls silent, and the three photos appear on the screen again. But this time there is no time question mark; instead there are black lines going out from the photos which gradually form three letters: M, A and P.

...

"Tree-map for the win!" the shaggy student jokes making his friends, a few knowledgeable onlookers and a rat sitting on a shelf high above the ground laugh quietly.

Monterey Jack scratched his head. "Why's that funny?"

"But of course!" Sparky exclaimed.

"And what?" Tammy livened up.

"Huh?"

"Forget it. Although I didn't really need to say that…"

...

"MAP," Blather elucidates. "The MAP, to be precise. It's hard to think of less ominous acronym, but its meaning is outright killing. Behind those letters lurks nothing less than Mouse Assassin Project. Yes, you heard it right. Assassin. And a vivid proof of that is the fate of General Haddahm bin Hassad al-Meisei."

The Channel Six reporter is on the screen no longer. Instead it's a mustached man wearing a gold-embroidered military uniform. His image, widely publicized by Akbarnistan and international mass media, became one of the grimmest symbols of the 20th century and an embodiment of a term 'Middle-Eastern dictator'. His sudden death, in turn, became an illustrative example of 'divine retribution' (as Western voices put it) or 'a hand of intelligence services' (as independent from those voices journalists put it). The other options, even when considered, were always referred to as 'unlikely'. But Blather, already warmed to a role of myth buster, capitalizes on that fully.

"As we all remember, his mysterious death spawned many rumors and gossips. For a long time the policy of reconciliation with the West his stepson Fareed J'quai pursues has served an indirect proof of USA intelligence involvement in his removal. But now, owing to this record and other materials we obtained, we are able to shed a light on this story and name true contractors of Haddahm's murder. The Black Table."

...

"Black what?" the shaggy student asked his friends.

"Table," one of them answered.

"I misheard, then. But my variant would be cool, too…"

...

"I can perfectly understand your confusion. Black Table is so secret that not only its members but its very name was kept secret from the public. But its existence explains much and who knows how many still unsolved murders and acts of terrorism no one took responsibility for they committed. Now we know that Black Table is behind the General Haddahm's death. But that's not what makes his death exceptional. After all, history knows many assassinations of both democratic and authoritarian leaders. His death is special. because it was the first combat use of the Mouse Assassin Project.

"So what is MAP? It's top secret joint project of the CIA and Eastern Pharmaceuticals. From the CIA side it was overseen by Reginald MacMillan, Deputy Head of Special Defences at the time, while from EP side it was led by Doctor Archibald Snow. Russell Ferrante was a middle man between MacMillan and Snow, and at the same served as a 'face' of the operation so to say. He was responsible for renting several post boxes in various cities across the country; he signed the contract on behalf of Eastern Pharmaceuticals to purchase the industrial complex eighty miles south of New York where they can vegetables now; and he was responsible for delivering the most promising rodents to the lab. The rodents with 'above-average intelligence' his company wanted to obtain from Bio-Tech to turn them into mouse assassins."

...

Except for the shaggy student's whistle, the crowd in the electronics supermarket met the news in deathly silence.

...

"What's required of the assassin?" Blather asks millions of his viewers and immediately answers like a versed expert: "He is required to be able to reach his victim unnoticed wherever needed; assassinate his victim, preferably making the death look like resulting from natural causes; and then leave stealthily leaving no traces behind. We would need a professional for that. And if we require him to be virtually untraceable and not to betray any information about his employers even if he's caught? We would need a master. But where can we get one? Anywhere if we look underfoot. I'm sure you'll agree that an ordinary house mouse can easily find its way to places where no human can ever infiltrate. Why our world isn't overrun by killer mice yet? The answer is obvious: they are hard to control. Really, how one tells a mouse where to infiltrate, whom to kill, and where to go after the murder? The words won't help you, they can't understand them…"

...

The mess hall of the WaGuS base filled with discontented hum for a moment, but silence was restored very quickly and everybody continued listening to Blather. Although from now on not only the TV but the couple of Rescue Rangers were in center of attention as well, for the reporter's words made everybody wonder…

...

Doctor Snow appears on the screen again.

"But not much time ago there was a real breakthrough in the field. Archibald Snow, Professor of Columbia University, MD and PhD in Physiology, along with his colleagues achieved great results in studying of transduction of nerve signals, which later won them the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. But, as we all remember, Doctor Snow didn't receive this prize because he had left the University and joined Horizon Corporation as a head of laboratory in theory and a head of hastily established company Eastern Pharmaceuticals in practice, which, I mean the company, specialized not in production of medicine but in breeding of mouse assassins. It was Doctor Snow who solved the seemingly impossible problem of controlling the rodent assassins and created neurochips. Those chips were implanted into animals' brains and, when activated, received a full control over nerve signals' transduction, turning their hosts into assassins. But the chip alone was not enough. That's why the project needed rodentia with outstanding intelligence or, at the very least, a bit smarter than the rest…"

...

"That's our Dale!" Chip joked.

Gadget coughed. "Chip, you know—"

"Later," the chipmunk cut her short without even looking at her, fully engrossed into watching TV. He just pressed his finger to his lips calling for silence and attention.

_He's doing it as if on purpose!_ the mouse thought but said nothing, for she really wanted to know what else the reporter had in store, for his research results were already intriguing, alarming and dangerous at the same time…

...

"Doctor Snow was undeniably smart and intelligent and he quickly realized that the price of MAPs on the black market greatly exceeded the highest salaries a professor or a lab head could ever hope to get, and they would always be in demand. So it's not surprising that the first field test of the universal assassin, namely the death of General Haddahm al-Meisei, was also a demo for potential buyers — the already mentioned Black Table. The clients were fully satisfied and soon chose another target: the President of the United States."

...

WaGuS, the electronics supermarket and the entire multimillion audience gasped as one.

...

"That's why a rat armed with a poisoned syringe was in the box intended for the Peace Dove," Blather states commenting the close-up image of Fareed and Laura Logan taken by the stationary camera. "And this assassination attempt would have surely succeeded if it hadn't been for the unknown chipmunk which frightened the First Daughter and the mouse which sneaked into the box and neutralized the killer rat."

...

"Heard that?!" Dale shouted for the entire mess hall. "Our Gadget is a hero!"

"You mean that the pink mouse we saw the entire time is her?" Mouse inquired.

"Of course! Who else?" the chipmunk answered proudly. He wanted to add something else, but after Stan's very next phrase his ardor vanished without a trace.

...

"How could that be, you may ask. Actually, it's pretty simple. This mouse assassinated General Haddahm, and MacMillan and Snow discuss its price on the black market. But its chip malfunctioned and it rebelled against its former masters. That's why MacMillan and Ferrante tried to kill it, and only the chipmunk's interference prevented them from doing so. Unfortunately, now it's impossible to determine whether the First Chipmunk was another rebellious rodent assassin or he was one of the rodents with above-average intelligence that evaded the hands of Eastern Pharmaceuticals' neurosurgeons. Whatever it may be, his behavior clearly indicates some connection between him and that mouse…"

...

Four Rescue Rangers in Washington smiled meaningfully and exchanged glances, while in New York Chip touched his wedding ring.

"Interesting choice of words, it's worth remembering," he observed in a low voice.

Gadget blushed and lowered her eyes. "Yeah, that… that was a nice way to put it…"

...

"…so it's not surprising that after his defeat in the Battle of the Capitol MacMillan didn't give up easily and sneaked into the Walter Reed Army Medical Center expecting to find the rebellious assassin there. Unfortunately, we probably will never know what exactly happened in that ward on that night. But knowing what that mouse is capable of, we can confidently assume that it was her and not some mythical Chipmunkbusters who switched the door signs and caused the explosion that killed Reginald MacMillan. I'm afraid we'll never know what happened to that mouse and to the chipmunk which simply vanished from the White House after a while. We can only speculate about the fate of Doctor Archibald Snow and Russell Keith Ferrante who are probably kept in one of the CIA special prisons along with other suspected terrorists' associates. We can only wonder what Black Table is up to, and whether or not Doctor Snow's research results, evacuated in unknown direction, fall into the wrong hands someday.

"But there's one thing we all know for sure. The Peace Ceremony incident must be closely investigated and all law enforcement agencies must report on the measures they undertake to prevent something like that to happen ever again. The ball is on their court now, for we did everything we could. You were watching Special Investigation and me, its host, Channel Six special reporter Stan Blather. See you later, and watch the schedule. Goodbye! Take care!"

Stan got so carried away that he continued smiling and staring into the camera, not noticing Spaulding waving at him that the airing is over. Only when she moved her hand before the camera a couple of times Blather shook up and plopped down on the table.

"That's really it?" he moaned.

"That's it!" Suzan shouted, and Lonny whistled loudly and clapped his hands a couple of times. The other studio workers followed suit and gave Stan a standing ovation, so loud that nobody noticed when another man joined it. Blather didn't notice it, too, and shook up upon hearing Jefferson's voice over his ear. "Stanley, you're genius!"

"Huh? Oh, Mister Jefferson, I'm sorry! I just…"

"It's alright, my boy, I understand you perfectly. If I were you, I would see and hear nothing now wishing only to get to bed and sleep until the very Judgment Day. So let me give you an advice: go home and have a rest. And don't come tomorrow, Joan will replace you."

"It's that bad?" Blather asked thinking he was being fired.

Jefferson laughed and shook his shoulder. "What are you talking about, Stan? Bad? It's magnificent! It's the highest-ranked documentary in several years! Even the special bulletin of Mysteries of the Century about 9/11 couldn't attract such an audience, and you left Bernstein and Woodward far behind! ATVC and RHOX called us about the rights to feature your materials in their news! Come to think about it! We supply RHOX with stories! It was unimaginable just yesterday, even just an hour ago!"

"Wow…" Stan muttered, incapable of saying anything else. He needed to spend some time in a calmer environment to grasp it all, but it was already clear that his glory moment had finally come.

* 7 *

Despite the show had ended already, people in the electronics shop were not in a hurry to leave and loudly discussed what they just saw. As always, opinions divided. Some thought it was a hoax, a fake, and it just couldn't be true. Others saw it as a confirmation of their own home-made conspiracy theories. The overwhelming majority habitually didn't know what to think about it.

"Well, guys, what do you think?" Monterey Jack asked squeezing sweat out of his flight cap.

"Looks like our gambit worked!" Tammy answered.

Sparky had a ready answer, too. "He repeated my writing almost word for word! Very close to it, at least, if memory serves me. Amazing!"

Now it was Zipper's turn to speak out. He flew up from the shelf, hovered in front of his friends and squeaked loudly waving his extremities. This flurry of moving arms, legs and wings could seem unneeded fuss hindering understanding. But without it the fly's word stock would include only a couple of dozens of the simplest notions which wouldn't be enough to express finite and deep thoughts that occurred to him far more often than one could imagine.

"The kid is right, fellas!" Monty said when Zipper finished. "We have an information leak, and if I understand anything in this life, it happened on the highest level!"

"Maybe it isn't a leak?" Tammy proposed. "Maybe CIA deliberately made it public?"

"I doubt it," Sparky objected. "You make such things public only if it's profitable. But where's profit here? 'CIA is developing rodent-assassins' — it's scandalous! No, they wouldn't have shot themselves in the leg like that."

"Okay, so what do we do now?" Tammy and others looked at Monterey Jack.

"Well, first we'll call Chip and find out what he thinks about it. Then we can visit Langley and find out what they think about it. I bet we'll near many new interesting words there—"

A cell phone rang right next to them. It belonged to the shaggy student who was just passing by with his friends heading towards the exit. Turned out, he was not only a joker but an eccentric guy as well having chosen not some rock anthem as his ringtone but a much more original sound — whistle of a boiling kettle.

"Oh, no!" Tammy exclaimed seeing Sparky's irises narrowing and his eyes becoming glassy. She clasped her friend's hand. "Hold on, Sparky! Fight it! Plug your ears!"

"Sure!" the scientist reacted instantly and put his paws on her head pressing her ears tightly. The squirrel flinched, not from electric shock but from surprise.

"Not me, you! Wait, you... You didn't succumb to it!"

"To what?" Sparky asked.

"To whistle!" Tammy embraced him tightly. "You really cured!"

"Cured? I was ill?"

"Well, not quite, just..." the red-headed Rescue Ranger waved her hand and decided not to remind him of that. She spent a great amount of time and efforts trying to free Sparky from the whistling reflex Nimnul had instilled in him, but finally she acknowledged that medicine was helpless in this case and turned to Foxglove. Although each session was like the first for Sparky and every time the bat had to explain what they were doing, what it was for, and what he should do, subconscious instillation proved to be stronger than forgetfulness. Or maybe it effectively complemented it, for the rat scientist not only stopped falling into destructive frenzy upon hearing a whistle but completely forgot he had ever suffered from it.

"What?" Sparky asked.

"In short I'm glad you're here with us!" Tammy quickly reassured her friend, but her happiness turned out premature, for it wasn't Sparky who had to be watched after but—

"CH-E-E-E-SE!" Monterey Jack roared smelling a familiar aroma. Sitting closest to him, Tammy tried to grab his sleeve but failed, not to mention that she probably wouldn't be able to prevent him from jumping on the shaggy student's backpack. Upon landing the fat mouse jumped where two zippers met, with cheddar's delicate aroma coming from a narrow opening between them. No zipper could stop Monty now, but a student's friend walking behind him interfered.

"Peter, you've got a mouse on your backpack!"

"What?" the shaggy guy turned around abruptly and Monterey, thrown off by centrifugal force, landed on a washing machine studied by a married couple. Of course they had watched the Blather show, so their reaction for a large rodent flown from nowhere was easily predictable.

"MOUSE ASSASSINS!" the young woman screamed jumping on her startled husband.

"CATCH IT!" somebody shouted, followed by a storm of mutually exclusive suggestions.

"KILL IT!"

"STAY AWAY FROM IT!"

"RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"

"CALL THE POLICE!"

"CALM DOWN EVERYBODY!" The last phrase belonged to a floor manager who came running carrying a mop. "Don't panic! It's only a mouse! We'll get rid of it now!"

He resolutely headed towards the washing machine with Monterey Jack sprawled over it. He landed headfirst and needed some time to recover.

"Where am I, Mommy?" he mumbled raising his head.

"ARGH!" the young woman screamed and climbed onto her husband's back with chimpanzee's agility and speed and stayed there, embracing him with her arms and legs. "IT'S MOVING!"

"Of course it's moving," Monty agreed with her. "Everything's moving here. Floor, ceiling, a man with a mop… Oh!" Monty started crawling away from the incoming shop employee.

"Don't approach it!" Somebody shouted.

Manager smiled. "Come on! It's just—" He froze with a smile on his face and a mop risen above his head. Only his irises moved, looking not at Monterey Jack but at Tammy and Sparky jumping across the washing machines. Other people noticed them, too, and the young woman, after several unsuccessful attempts to climb onto her husband's shoulders with her legs, howled: "LOOK! IT'S THEM! MOUSE ASSASSINS!"

Several lucky souls nearest to the doors dashed outside. The other customers and shop employees froze watching the squirrel and the rat with their eyes only.

"How are you, Monty?" Tammy asked when they reached their friend.

"I'm okay," Monty answered without moving his eyes off the end of the mop. "Looks like you shouldn't have come here."

"Come on, we aren't…" Tammy faltered noticing they were in the center of attention. "Uhm, guys…" she began.

"Maybe we should establish contact with them?" Sparky suggested stepping forward. He shouldn't have done that, for his movement forced the humans to act with eurhythmy which could make some synchronized swimming teams green with envy. Some clasped his bag with both hand and used it as a shield; some took off one of their shoes, and others grabbed the first thing that came to hand.

"NO! NOT LOGITECH!" manager yelled when one of Peter's buddies lifted a bright cardboard box, the shape of which made it an ideal mouse-swatter.

"Maybe we'd better leave them be?" the student asked carefully. "If they are MAPs, they can kill us all…"

The mob honed and stepped back.

"You know, this image of superkillers can be handy," Tammy observed.

"By the way, where's Zipper?" Monty asked.

"He went to start the Ranger Wing."

"Ranger Wing?" The Aussie asked, alarmed. "Actually, if you recall, he had issues flying even the Ranger Plane…"

"Don't worry! The Wing flies almost by itself! Gadget built it!" Sparky tried to calm the strongmouse down. He failed.

"That's what really scares me…" Monty said evaluating the distance to the doors. "I think we can try to make a run for it. If they step a little further back…"

Unfortunately, he couldn't finish his thought.

"NO!" somebody yelled from the opposite end of the floor. "We must catch them! The TV said they are very precious!"

Greed is always stronger than self-preservation instinct, and as soon as money were mentioned, all people instantly changed. Raising his mop to the ceiling, the manager shouted "Get them!", and the mob rushed towards the Rangers.

"RUN!" Monterey yelled. He put one of his hands around Tammy, grabbed Sparky's collar with another and jumped into a narrow slit between two adjacent washing machines where they couldn't be reached with hands, legs and various weapons. Except the mop.

"Don't let them get away!" the manager shouted. "I'll drive them towards you and you grab them! Harry! Bring another mop!"

"We're trapped," Monterey Jack observed looking from side to side.

They were exactly in the middle of the slit, where two adjacent washing machines met. Both ends were plugged with someone's legs, and the mop handle, a little wider than half of the slit width, was moving towards them from one side. No way out could be seen, but then the man standing next to the manager stepped aside allowing him to come closer to the slit, and an opening appeared beyond the mop handle.

"Get ready, fellas!" Monty said nodding in that direction. "I'll grab the handle and pull it aside, and you crawl between it and the wall and run! I'll distract them, and you'll get away."

"But about you, Mont?" Tammy asked in fear.

"I'll get out, I'm used to tight spots! Come on! When they bring the second mop, it will be too late!"

The squirrel wanted to object, but Sparky spoke up. "Just a sec, I've got another plan! I just need to…" he moved his fingers intently, then looked at Tammy closely. "Texture, friction coefficient, potential… I think that will do! Don't move!"

"Huh?" Tammy didn't have time to react as the rat scientist tightly clasped her plait with his paws and started moving them up and down rapidly. "Ouch! It hurts!"

"Sorry," Sparky apologized curtly. "Follow me!"

He dashed along the corridor away from the broom handle. Monty and Tammy ran after him, praying that he wouldn't forget what he was going to do.

"Get ready!" Sparky shouted. He extended his hands and jumped onto the leg barring the way, hitting exactly between a shoe and a trouser leg. His fingers pierced a sock and touched the skin beneath, scratching it slightly. It wasn't really painful, especially if compared to the electric shock that followed.

"OUCH!" the owner of the leg screamed and span around trying to squash the attacking rat. But Sparky instantly jumped down on the floor and ran in wide leaps after his friends who were already only halfway away from the exit.

"GET THEM!" the people shouted. "THEY'RE RUNNING AWAY!"

And the Rescue Rangers would have surely run away, for all three of them were at the doors already. But…

"Come on! Open up!" Tammy shouted knocking her small fists against the glass barring the way to salvation. "Why aren't they opening?"

"Because we're too small for them!" Sparky explained. "All automatic doors are calibrated to a particular sensibility level, lest they would react on raindrops, fallen leaves, newspapers blown by the wind… Oh, wait, what are we talking about?"

"About this!" Monterey Jack said pointing at the approaching mob.

"Oh, that's great!" Sparky smiled. "They'll come close and activate the doors!"

"STOP!" the manager shouted. "Don't come close! You'll activate the doors!"

"Why did you have to say it out loud?" Monterey said grimly and rolled up his sleeves. "Now the fight is inevitable!"

"Don't worry!" Tammy objected ardently. "Sparky will fry them like the last time! Right, Sparks?"

"Right," Sparky nodded. "What's the plan again?"

In contrast to him, the manager was full of ideas. "Harry, give me the mop!" he commanded. "I think it's long enough. Now approach slowly and knock them out! And you," he turned to the others, "stand in a semicircle and be on alert!"

"Please, someone come in, someone come in…" Tammy lamented.

"Yeah," Sparky nodded. "It's good they didn't turn the doors off!"

"Harry, wait!" the manager turned to his colleague again. "Why didn't I think about it before? Go turn the doors off!"

"Stop telling them what to do!" Monterey grew even angrier than before. "Now it's time to fight!"

"Flight!" Sparky objected.

"How so?"

"Easily!" the blonde rat said and he was right. The automatic doors were calibrated very carefully, but the Ranger Wing was large enough for them. It flew into the supermarket, made a circle above the stunned crowd and flew back out. Only when the doors closed behind it the people regained their senses and noticed the rodents were gone.

"They ran away! Get them!" manager shouted darting outside so fast he almost brought down the doors which remained tightly shut. "Darn! They're stuck or what?" he shouted scratching his aching nose.

"I turned the doors off!" Harry announced upon his return. "Now it would be easy to catch them!"

Everybody turned to him, and Harry, despite being unable to read minds, knew he would be beaten, and maybe even with legs…

"My oh my!" Monterey Jack gasped when the Rescue Rangers along with the Wing hid in some small park a safe distance away from the electronics supermarket. "And I thought we're off to become a study material. Zipper, old buddy, we're in your debt!"

The green fly just smiled and made a few spins in midair which could be translated as 'Forget it, it's nothing special!'

"I told you this plane flies almost by itself!" Sparky said. "By the way, it was me who designed the fly-by-light system!"

Monterey's confidence in the Wing grew by fifty percent at least. "Looks like today's your day! You electric attack would make any skate proud!"

"And if it weren't for Sparks, we would never know about that complex!" Tammy didn't pass up an opportunity to remind everyone of her friend's merits.

"Too right!" Monty confirmed. "High four, Sparker…! Although, no, forget about it."

"Okay!" the scientist smiled. "I don't have that much with me anyways."

* 8 *

In contrast to their friends in Washington, Dale and Foxglove had to face a whole bunch of animals of various breeds and colors. And every single one of them, from mice and pigeons to the WaGuS leader, a black Newfoundland named Fishburn, exhibited quite unfriendly mood. The other dog in the group, red retriever Reaves, along with several rodents and birds was patrolling the base perimeter and was absent from the hall, but the enormous Newf was more than enough to start worrying.

"Uhm, guys," Dale began. "I know it looks very—"

"Murderous?" Mouse suggested, grinning evilly. Commonly for youths getting older without actually growing up, his awe of the Rescue Rangers instantly changed into disdainful hatred. But Fishburn knocked him slightly in the head with his paw, and the young rodent fell silent instantly.

"Mister Dale," Fishburn spoke in deep voice, "with all due respect for you and your team, we demand explanations. We remember the story of Mrs. Gadget disappearance and her miraculous return, but I think you'll agree that in light of newly revealed circumstances this story gets quite a different color."

"In other words, you've told us a load of garbage!" Dozer the Pigeon translated from diplomatic to common.

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Foxglove objected warily. "Yes, we were silent about a couple of things, but—"

"A couple of things?" Fishburn repeated. "You call two murders and an attempt on the President's life 'a couple of things'?"

"There was no attempt on Logan's life!" Dale objected fervently. "That is, Gadget prevented it! You heard what Blather said?"

The Newfoundland nodded. "We did. And we also saw the three rats running towards the box your friend fell out of, and the two of them continued chase, while the third vanished without a trace. That is, it vanished without a trace according to humans, but I think it ended up in that box along with the syringe. Humans just can't even fathom that a rodent can use a body of another rodent to cover her tracks, but we know the truth, don't we?"

_Should have trained them to be that smart!_ Dale scolded himself. But it was too late to retreat; and nowhere, for that matter. It would be decided here and now, during this conversation, how members of WaGuS and other vigilante animal law enforcement organizations would treat the Rescue Rangers as a whole and Gadget in particular…

"Sure, but—" Foxglove began carefully.

"Don't, I'll manage!" Dale cut her short and met the gaze of the dog hanging over him like a storm cloud. "You're right, Fishburn! We know and can do much more than Humans think! And we know much more than they said on TV!"

"Like what?" Mouse asked rancidly.

"Like that Gadget killed no one! No one at all!"

Dale's words were met with loud babble, a mixture of anger, disbelief and jest. "Lie! Couldn't come up with anything cleverer? He considers us fools!"

"SILENCE!" Fishburn snapped. "Mister Dale, you aren't going to deny the obvious—"

"I'm not! I deny the not-obvious!"

A dense and intrigued silence hung over the hall.

"Yeah!" Dale continued without lowering his voice or averting his gaze from the Newfoundland's muzzle. He had to crane his neck for that, but it was easier than meeting the stares of dozens of opponents at once. "Yes, Gadget killed General Haddahm! And she was in that box with the syringe! But it wasn't Gadget, it was MAP! Understood?!"

"Not quite," Fishburn answered.

"But why?! Didn't you see 'Naked Gun'? Did you see 'The Manchurian Candidate' at least?!"

"Stop yelling, Dale," Foxglove scolded him, but Dale waved her off. "So?! Did you see it or not?!"

"We did, Mister Dale," Fishburn was an embodiment of calm. "And?"

"And! Gadget wasn't the one doing it, it was MAP! You heard about those chips and that nervous transdeduction or whatever! Gadget didn't know what she was doing! She didn't control her own body! Gosh, she wasn't in her body at all!"

"It's insane!" Dozer shouted. Several WaGuS members backed him up, forcing Fishburn to bark again to establish order.

"It's a bird!" Dale shouted in Dozer's direction and quickly turned back to Fishburn. "Foxy can confirm it! She tried to locate her a couple of times through the astral using her crystals, and you know what?"

"What?" the entire WaGuS asked in unison.

"Tell them, Foxy!"

"Nothing," the bat answered. "I couldn't detect her!"

"Heard that?!" Dale asked. "She couldn't detect her! And why? Because she wasn't in this world! At all! There was only MAP! And she wasn't!"

Dozer sniffed. "What a convenient excuse…"

"EXCUSE?!" Dale became infuriated. "You are excuse yourself! I would like to see you unfeathered, pricked all over with needles and with microchip in your head! Do you know what she had to go through?! No! And you'll never know! She didn't know herself until Foxglove hypnotized her and made her remember! And she instantly regretted it! She didn't… didn't want to live after all that! She felt herself befouled, used! She thought herself a criminal, even though that Haddahm she killed was a monster! That's why we kept it in secret! For her! Is it clear?!"

Breathing heavily, Dale glanced around, and most of the animals cast their eyes down, unable to withstand his gaze. Mouse was one of the few who didn't bulge. "And how did you cure her?"

The chipmunk wiped his face with his sleeve. "Electric shock."

"When?"

"On the stage, right then. Zipper did it, the camera didn't catch it."

"And she was herself afterwards?"

"Yes."

"So it was her who killed MacMillan, and not MAP. Right?"

Dale was silent for a moment.

"Got nothing to say?" Dozer inquired cocking his head to the side.

Dale shrugged. "Heck, no, I've got something. I killed him."

Everybody froze with their mouths and beaks wide open.

"Dale…" Foxglove whispered covering her mouth with her wings.

"Mister Dale," Fishburn observed flatly, "you understand how serious it is?"

The chipmunk grinned. "Have we been joking all this time? Yes, I killed him. Because he wanted to kill Gadget and Chip. Yes, we swapped the signs with the ward numbers and put a rubber toy in bed instead of Chip, but I knew it was only a part of the animal. MacMillan was too dangerous a foe and knew too much to be left alive. So when my friends left the ward I opened the oxygen tank's valve. I remembered he smoked pipe and thought it would work. And it worked. Perfectly."

"You don't seem to regret it," the pigeon observed.

"Because I don't!" Dale stated proudly crossing his arms. "He wouldn't have stopped until he killed us all! So if I could, I would do that again! And I will do that to anyone who threatens life, health and honor of my friends! And if any one of you dares to say something bad about Gadget, I swear those words will be his last! I don't care what you'll do to me after that, and how many pieces you'll tear me into, but I'll cling to his throat and bite him to death! I'll be fast enough! Don't believe me? I can prove it! Any volunteers?!"

Foxglove tensed, preparing to snatch Dale from under the dashing band and fly into the nearest window, but that wasn't needed. WaGuS members were silent, and even Mouse and Dozer, the most active accusers, evaded the chipmunk's gaze.

"No volunteers," Fishburn answered on everyone's behalf.

"In that case I'll be in my room," Dale said. "Tomorrow morning we are resuming patrols."

He turned around on his heels and went to the hall's exit. Foxglove rushed after him. The silence followed them. Only when they were crossing the threshold did Fishburn open his mouth. "Mister, Dale, Miss Foxglove, forgive us."

Dale waved his hand indicating it was okay. But when he reached the corridor encircling the warehouse, he turned not left, towards living burrows, but right, towards a stairway. Without saying a word, he went upstairs, exited the warehouse and went to the edge of a forlorn and half-ruined pier. Foxglove followed him closely. Only when Dale sat down and exhaled loudly, she dared to ask:

"Dale, what really happened there?"

The chipmunk looked at her. "Does it matter?"

"It does for me," Foxglove moved up to him and put her wing around him. Dale shuddered as if chilled, and Foxglove once again regretted that her wings weren't covered with warm fur. "You really did that? You killed him?"

"Well…" Dale threw a couple of sand grains into the water below. "When we were setting up the decoy ward, we wanted to make it look real. Monty unfolded the screen. Sparky turned some equipment on making it blinking and beeping. And I… I saw the oxygen tank on the wall. And I opened its valve to make it whistle. We thought about putting the mask on the toy, but decided it would do okay without it. And so… In truth, it was indeed me who killed him."

"Why did you say it all then?" Foxglove nodded at the warehouse.

Dale shrugged. "I don't know. Thought it would be more convincing and, well, more reputable, maybe…"

"They could have killed you!"

"But they didn't."

Foxglove embraced him tighter, pressing her entire body to him. "My hero… I'll tell others about it, I promise! Gadget and Chip will be proud of you!"

Dale shuddered and wrapped his Hawaiian-colored sweater tighter. "Yeah… Maybe… Alright, let's go, it's getting cold out here…"

* 9 *

"Alright, Monty, be on alert! You're our eyes and ears now! Good luck!" Chip pushed the hang-up button.

"Oh my…" Gadget commented. "I would never imagine it could be possible."

"Alarming signal, agreed," Chip nodded as he dialed the next number. "It can make our job very difficult. I hope Dale and Foxy had no such problems."

This time Deep Purple performed two verses before Dale picked up the phone.

"What?"

"Dale, you?"

"No, angry beaver! Of course it's me! No worries, everything's under control."

"Got it," Chip said, requiring no more explanations. "What do you think?"

"Cheap editing, I can draw that in a day on any computer."

"I'm serious, Dale!" Chip cut his friend short, although it was one of those rare occasions when his jokes brought joy first and only then irritated. Everything was really under control. If he and Foxglove were in danger, Dale wouldn't have time for a stand-up.

"Alright, don't heat up! What I think? Holy mind blowing cliffhanger Batman! I hope Black Table won't hide now!"

Chip hemmed skeptically. He didn't expect any different reaction from his old friend, who read too many comic books, but it was a wrong time for debates. "Let's hope for the better. But still keep your eyes and echolocators open! What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"We'll go west, to Newark. Rumor has it something bad is going on in the airport district; we ought to have a look. Or do you have some other plans for us?"

Chip scratched his chin. "No, nothing right now, we'll try to manage. Do your job, but try to be in contact all the time!"

"Okay."

"Bye, then! And revert the ringing tone back to normal!"

But Dale hung up already. Chip hung up too and stood for moment tapping his fingers against the button, then turned to Gadget. "Pack up."

"How far?"

"Channel Six studio. Blather must have hosted his show from there."

"You think he didn't tell everything he knew?"

"It's possible. And we are not the only ones who can think about it."

Gadget tightened instantly. "Black Table?"

"Or the CIA. In any case we must be the first to get there."

"I'll be quick."

The inventor ran upstairs, and soon Chip heard a muffled wallop which, as usual, brought a warm and just a little bit lenient smile. Gadget was her usual self. If you didn't know what happened tonight you'll never guess that something changed.

"I'm done!" Gadget announced riding down the tire, and it wasn't an exaggeration. A large backpack on her back bulged at the seams from tools of various size and purpose, and the remaining tools filled numerous pockets of her jumpsuit and bags of her special belt. One could find anything there. Or not find, if he wasn't lucky enough.

"Wow!" Chip whistled. "Didn't know you have that!"

"I didn't, too. Found it today while cleaning up. I made it some time ago, while you were in Washington, for the future encounter with Black Table. I think this is the right moment. Plus it contains everything we might need while searching the studio."

"Not the studio," her husband corrected her heading towards the stairs downwards. "Let's go, I'll explain on the way," he added answering her silent question.

Having all the doors and windows locked, the couple descended to the garage to the Gyrotank which had cooled down already and was eager for a new ride. All equipment and hardware including a cell phone was loaded beforehand, so Gadget had to check the battery charge and the axes greasing only, and the machine was fully ready for the mission. Chip let his wife into the driving seat and sat in the back with her backpack on his knees.

"So, Chip, what's the plan?" Gadget asked closing the garage door via the remote control and driving the vessel south, around The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir.

"First we reach studio and start tailing Blather."

"You think he will be attacked?"

"That's possible, but I'd prefer him reaching his house which we will then search."

"You think he keeps important materials at home?"

Chip shrugged. "We should start from somewhere. If I were Blather, I'd rather keep them at home than in the studio."

"That's all?"

"For now. The rest remains to be seen."

Gadget braked to avoid collision with a stroller, let it pass and drove on the bridge over 86th Street Transverse Road. There were more people here, so they had to postpone their conversation. Contrary to their fears based on the Washington group's experience, the park visitors didn't pay much attention to the Gyrotank, as usual considering it some exotic remote controlled toy.

"You're clearly holding something up," Gadget said when they left the bridge far behind.

Chip was silent for a moment searching for an appropriate wording, but in the end decided to speak plainly. "Yes, I am."

Gadget grew tense expecting to hear something like 'as you do, too.' She was unable to speak with Chip during the show — sometimes the information from the screen made her forgetting everything else, sometimes he cut her short. Now her determination extinguished, every passing minute increased her doubts about raising the question at all, and presently she became really scared of it. But Chip continued differently.

"You see, there are several variants each of which has a rational kernel and is more or less reasonable. I mean the airing of the show, or, to be more precise, Blather's source of information. And not just information, but the material we sent to the Capitol's security."

Gadget nodded in agreement. During the show they understood that Blather had somehow obtained the information sent to the authorities by the Rescue Rangers. The security footage fragment was a clear indication of it, for it ended right when the Rangers had cut it. When Chip called Washington afterwards, he asked Sparky what exactly the rat had written in the explanatory note. After adjustment for holes in Sparky's memory, everything matched perfectly.

Chip continued. "The government officials are crossed out immediately. First, the publication of this information is unfavorable for them. Second, the show was clearly prepared in secrecy, it wasn't even announced beforehand, which, as I am sure you agree, is very bad for audience attraction. It means they were afraid of countermeasures. Third, the show's tone was devastating, and the final call for more thorough investigation of the incident clearly indicates it was about whistle-blowing, not simply informing."

"Sounds reasonable," Gadget agreed and smiled involuntarily. Chip's ability to say much, to the point and using only a really needed amount of words always fascinated her.

"So we're dealing with the information leak. Several variants are possible. First — info was leaked by a dishonest investigation participant in exchange for money. It's the most banal and the most positive variant because it means the investigation is going on and the Black Table is really being hunted. Second variant — info was leaked by an _honest_ investigation participant who can't stand seeing it being torn down, the evidence being destroyed, and the guilty being shielded. It's bad, but there's hope that the Blather's show and the public uproar it caused will lead to staff changes and the case will move from the sticking point."

"Oh, it will move, I'll see to it…" Gadget muttered through her teeth.

"That's the idea, yeah. But there's another variant, much worse but at the same time the most far-fetched. The leak was arranged by the Black Table."

Gyrotank swerved and Chip, who had no time to get hold of his seat, hit his head against the side.

"Sorry," Gadget said having restored control.

"I'm sorry, too. I had to prepare you somehow."

"No, it's okay. Why do you think so?"

Chip scratched his head. "Well, maybe because we almost rolled over?"

"No, I mean the Black Table."

"Oh, I see. It's rather 'suspect', not 'think'. Remember Blather calling the events on the Peace Ceremony an assassination attempt on the President?"

"I do," Gadget moved her shoulders getting rid of a sudden chill. "Basically, it really was one."

"Yes, but the Black Table has nothing to do with it."

"Well, only we know it."

"And the Black Table."

Gadget got lost in thought involuntarily and almost crashed into a tree. Chip started to regret that he hadn't put off this conversation until their arrival.

"You mean that the Black Table deliberately ascribed the assassination attempt to themselves?"

"Actually, we ascribed it to them to further nail Snow, MacMillan and Ferrante. The Black Table just used the situation to their favor."

"It's still sounds too complicated."

"On the contrary," Chip objected, "it was pretty simple and, more important, effective. If they had simply uploaded a video to the net with a masked man taking responsibility for it, it would have been considered a hoax and not taken very seriously. But now it sounded like a revelation, like a result of long and painstaking investigation."

"Yes, but why did they need it?"

"To enhance their reputation, make a statement."

"And uncover themselves completely," Gadget added.

"Did they uncover themselves?"

Gadget cast a surprised glance at him. "Didn't they?"

"What's known about them aside from the name?"

"That's a lot! Now it's easier for the authorities to track them down."

"Authorities knew about their name already. From us."

Gadget frowned. "Golly, right!"

"Aha!" Chip pointed his finger into the ceiling. "That's what I'm talking about! So the Black Table loses nothing, but gains a lot. Namely—"

"A reputation of an evil and powerful group which can easily arrange assassination of a Middle-East paranoid dictator and the President of the USA, the most guarded man in the world," Gadget finished for him.

"Exactly," Chip confirmed. He wasn't surprised by his wife's words. The friends told him that it was Gadget who devised the plan which included a diversion of making Doctor Snow guilty of the Capitol shooting, stealing of the cassette with the security camera recording, and the use of it to expose MacMillan, Ferrante as the whole project. Apparently, serving as a MAP affected not only her physical shape.

"But if they aren't going to hide anymore," Gadget went on with her train of thought, "it could mean that…"

Now it was Chip's turn to finish her thought. "That they are preparing for an active play."

"And when will it happen?"

"Very soon, I think."

"Wouldn't it be wise to wait until the dust settles?"

Chip puffed his cheek pouches a couple of times. "Basically, yes, but in today's world even sensational news tend to become forgotten very quickly, so I would strike the iron while it's still hot if I were them."

"Hold on!" Gadget warned him directing the Gyrotank along a slope covered with withered grass to 79th Street which ran in a ravine dug out across the park. It was a two-way street, and they had to cross the bridge and make a sharp turn to get to the needed lane. It was a rush hour, the cars were aplenty, and long queues formed periodically before the traffic lights. One of such queues caught a regular bus making rounds along 79th Street from Hudson River to East-River. Its route went literally under the windows of the building owned by Channel Six, so it was the perfect cover for the Gyrotank to travel through Manhattan.

Carefully driving up under the bus' rear bumper, Gadget switched to gyroframe and attached them to the human vehicle not far from its exhaust stack, so that any stranger would mistake it for some strange muffler or some sophisticated exhaust gas filtering system. The ride was about to be rather flavorful, but fast and safe.

"So we should expect some terrorist attacks soon," Gadget summed it up when the bus began moving at they could rest a little.

"Only if my far-fetched version is correct," Chip said coming up to her and embracing her shoulders. "I hope it won't come to that." He kissed a top of her head hidden behind thick hair smelling pleasantly with engine oil.

Gadget shivered as if chilled. "I hope, too."

Unfortunately, their hopes didn't come true.

* 10 *

The news of Blather's sensational discovery took very little time to spread from first-hand viewers to those sharing room with them, members of the contacts list of their favorite messenger, followers of their blog, or befriended them or all those mentioned in social networks. And when the fragments of the show made their way to YouTube, Google Video and other popular video hosting services, internet buzzed like an agitated bee hive. The clamor could be compared only with an uproar caused by a doping scandal after Super Bowl.

Financial divisions of WBC subsidiaries were already counting profits from an avalanche of orders for ad videos and banners placement, while the top management of the information giant joyfully watched the rating curves run off the charts. The risky tactics of a sudden live air chosen by Blather and Jefferson seemed the marvel of the modern mass media science. And Blather's punch line "See you later, and watch the schedule" which, like his many other lines, was a pure improvisation, now was perceived as an ingenious marketing ploy hinting at the following 'special bulletins' and thus making the audience involuntarily switch to WBC channels from time to time in order not to miss anything important.

The other channels also tried to capitalize on the discoveries made by their colleagues and competitors, and not only included fragments of Blather's show into their own newscasts, but also quickly arranged the discussions on the hot topic. They called upon everyone they could, from physiologists and retired high-ranking law intelligence agents to prominent conspiracy theorists and authors of famous spy thrillers, and it was clear that in the next few days everyone would sleep only occasionally and not for long.

Law enforcement agencies were also in turmoil, and not because of numerous citizens' calls about MAPs of all possible colors, kinds and sizes they saw. Sure, some accidents like the mass hysteria of the employees and visitors of the large capital's electronics supermarket could impress even the most experienced 9-1-1 operators; but the calls from places commonly called 'the halls of power' caused much greater commotion. So it wasn't at all surprising that a minute after Stan Blather drove into his garage there came a persistent knock at his front door.

"Who's it?" the reporter still dressed in his working suit shouted from the living room.

"Mister Blather, FBI."

Stan had to lean on his sofa to overcome a jolt of weakness. He realized that with the show's airing his troubles hadn't ended but had just begun. Still, he hoped to have time at least till the next morning. It was very naïve. On the other hand, the show had been aired, and he was a person of national importance, and so if they tried to touch him, they would get a scandal larger than Watergate! Relieved by the thought, Blather squared his shoulders and went to the door slowly and, hopefully, in dignified manner. The lock proved difficult to open, though. Either it stuck, or his fingers were twitching, it was hard to tell.

"Good evening, Mister Blather," the FBI agent on the left greeted him. He was five-six years older than the reporter and obviously ruled the roost in the tandem. Clayey features, fair hair and blue eyes indicated his family came from distant Northern countries, while his young colleague obviously had at least one Latin American in his family tree. "Agent Berg, this is my partner, agent Sanchez. We need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?"

Stan gulped and tried to look impressive. "Do you have an order?"

Sanchez rolled his eyes. Berg smiled disarmingly. "We don't yet. Do we need one?"

"Depends on what you are up to!"

"What we are up to? Nothing. We just want to talk."

"If you are about the today's show then I've got nothing to tell you! I won't betray my source to nobody!"

Berg smiled even wider, like a hunter in a Duffy Duck cartoon before a bank shot. "But you've already told us you have only one."

Blather was on the verge of fiasco. His shirt became drenched with sweat and stuck to his back. Like in the bark back then, for a moment he wanted to spill out everything at once. But then he saw the Sizemores behind the agent. A family couple almost the same age as he and Jessica, they lived nearby and were now standing by his fence, watching everything with apparent concern.

The Money magazine named Maplewood, New Jersey, one of the best places to live in America for a reason. This town only half an hour away from Manhattan earned it not as much as because it allowed the city dwellers to have their own house with a tidy lawn and their children — to visit very high-ranked schools; but mainly owing to the community of citizens and their mutual involvement in each other's lives. extraordinary even by America's standards. That's why Blather immediately felt that it wasn't him battling alone against two FBI agents, but these two agents ran up against him and the rest of the local population amounting for slightly less than twenty four thousand according to the latest census. Having realized it, the reporter cheered up and looked at his uninvited guests not as a cornered criminal but as the free citizen of the free country.

"I have nothing more to tell you. If you have any other questions, go to my lawyer or the Channel Six legal department. Or show me the order. Otherwise I strongly recommend you to leave my yard or I'll sue you for unlawful violation of a private property!"

"Sue us!" hot-headed Sanchez shouted, but Berg gestured him to keep mum and looked around. His guess was correct, they were indeed being watched from all sides for other block dwellers joined the Sizemores out of curiosity.

"In other words, you refuse to cooperate," Berg stated turning to Blather again and drawing apart pads of his glasses he took out of his pocket.

"No, why," the reporter objected. "I'm always eager to help the investigation! I just think that you look in a wrong place, and that your colleagues who withdrew the documents from Bio-Tech know much more than I. Maybe you should ask them?"

"We'll probably do just that," the federal agent chuckled. "Thank you for your time, Mister Blather, coffee was great! Come on, Raul."

Putting his smoky glasses on, Berg turned around and went towards a black sedan stopped right in front of the house. Sanchez regarded the reporter with a hostile look and quickly went after his partner trying not to look around him. In contrast, his elder colleague was pronouncedly calm and even said hello to the Sizemores completely ignoring their coldness. When they left, Blather leaned on the doorframe with his shoulder and wiped his face with his palm. He managed to deliver a successful attack and defend his own base in the first inning. What will the second bring?

"Stan, is everything alright?" the head of the Sizemore family called him.

"Yes, Bob, thank you!" Blather waved his hand, but then decided it wasn't enough and approached him and other neighbors. "It was about the show."

No more explanations were needed, for all those present were in the know. And everybody wanted to know just one thing.

"Stan, is it true?" 86-year old Saul Westwood, the headman of the block community, asked, towering above all others.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"So we were right to buy the entire rat poison supplies in the vicinity?"

Blather looked at him unknowingly but then laughed. "Oh, you mean that? No, of course not! There would be no MAP invasion!"

"You sure?" Patricia Sizemore asked. "I'm not joking, I'm afraid to let my children go for a walk!"

"Gosh, Pat, drop it!" Stan looked about the gathering. "And you all drop it, too! Carry on living your normal lives, don't allow your fear to drive you into the holes! Remember: that's what they want you to do! But we're stronger than that, aren't we?"

There were no objections, although if Blather's neighbors thought it all over more carefully, they would probably concluded that the source of their fears is the Blather's activity, and the government tried hard to prevent the panic. Fortunately for Stan, the common folks didn't contemplate that deep.

"Of course!" Bob answered. "See, my love, everything's fine!"

"Nice to hear it, for my old lady saw me off into the cellar as if for some war!" Saul joked. "I'll tell everyone that, citing you. Tell them I heard it first-hand!"

"That's the spirit!" Blather nodded. At first the neighbors' words made him regret starting all this, but now, seeing their serene and confident faces, he knew he did the right thing. "By the way, Bob, Pat, thanks for coming! I wouldn't have driven them off without you!"

"No problem!" Sizemore slapped his shoulder sweepingly. He was a pitcher of a local amateur baseball team, and his slap made Blather stagger. "When we saw you coming, went here at once! And they say horrible things on TV! So thanks for relief! But still be on alert. These went, the other will come."

"Too late to worry about that, they're already here," Saul said nodding at the blue GMC Savannah van parked in the end of the street. "I saw them driving up, approximately an hour before those two pigeons. Cleverly parked, they have a perfect view of the street from there, I know."

"Oh…" Blather looked there and shuddered. "Yeah, they won't leave me alone now."

"Don't be a chicken!" Bob rallied him up. "You said we must live, not be afraid. Want to dine with us? Without Jessica you probably turned sour with all those half-ready foods, and Patsy cooked a great beef steak! You, Saul, can come, too! You all can come!"

Blather knew it was impolite to decline; besides, he was really fed up with canned food already. But he wasn't in a shape to keep up the small talk, not to mention answer endless questions about tonight's show.

"Thanks, Bob, but some other time. I'm dead tired."

Sizemore nodded. "I understand. Oh, before I forgot, where did you get that bumper decoration?"

Stan was already heading to the house and froze with his foot in midair. "Bumper decoration?"

"Yeah, the rear one! A large ball, metal or the like, I didn't see very clearly."

"I didn't have any—" The reporter cut short and looked at his neighbor, then at the garage doors.

Westwood was the first to get it. "Everybody, move away from the house," he ordered curtly. "Stan, call the… DON'T!"

But frightened Blather didn't hear him and ran towards the garage. Bob got it already, too, but couldn't prevent Stan from opening the garage doors. But, contrary to expectations, there was no explosion.

"Stanley, you're idiot or what?" Saul asked angrily. "There could be a bomb!"

"Bomb?" Blather asked, breathing heavily. "Huh… What has come over me?"

"You really need to rest!" Sizemore pronounced.

"You too!" the reporter countered. "There's nothing here!"

Indeed, the light turned on automatically and it was clear that the car's rear bumper had no things attached even closely resembling the thing Bob had described.

"Strange," the amateur baseball player scratched his head. "Maybe it crawled into the house?"

"Who?"

"That thing, the bumper mine."

"Stop it, Bob, there was no mine!" his wife interjected. "Acknowledge that you just imagined it and stop scaring people!"

"I didn't imagine it…" Bob muttered, insulted, but he couldn't deny the empty bumper. He checked under the car just in case and exited the garage. "Maybe I indeed made it up after all those killer mice stories. You sure you don't want to come?"

Blather nodded. "Sure. Nerves are giving up already, I even run to the bombs instead of away from them."

Bob laughed. "Right! I must say you've got a heck of a quick start! Don't want to join our team?"

"No, I want to sleep. Have a good time, everybody!"

Having said good-bye to his neighbors, Blather closed the gates and reached for the light switch. Then thought a little more and inspected every nook and cranny one more time. The spacious garage for two cars had not so many places one could hide a mine. Especially now, when its other half, usually occupied by Dodge Durango, was empty. At the moment the bright red SUV which the Blathers had yet to pay half of the credit for was livening the air around a country house in southern part of Utah. Stan's parents-in-law lived there, and his wife and children were their 'guests' now.

_I should call them and ask how they liked the show…_ he thought. He looked about the garage again and was about to leave when his gaze stopped on a half-opened door of a little closet where a lawnmower and other gardening tools were stored and which should have been locked.

For a moment Blather thought about calling his neighbors but then, commonly for amateurs not wanting to look cowards, decided to check everything by himself. He took a heavy wrench from a shelf and carefully stepped up to the door. For a man of his age, constitution and training, Stan was moving very quietly, for solid B-plus, and if it hadn't been for his strained wheezing the rogue in the closet would have never heard him, taken out his gun and shot right through the door.

But it never happened for there was no one in the closet.

Blather stood on tiptoe and moved his fingers along the edge of the top shelf. The key was there.

_I probably was in a hurry and forgot to lock it the last time…_ Stan decided. He exhaled loudly, wagged his finger warningly at a pair of snow shovels in the corner, locked the door and left, never noticing the Gyrotank stuck on the wall right above the door. Its owners didn't even need the key hidden in a really secret place. Using Gadget's tail having experience with much tougher locks, they parked the vehicle out of sight and hid behind the sofa in the living room and were having a War Council there at the moment.

"So, FBI is on the case already," Chip summarized. "Blather kicked a hornet nest!"

"It's strange those agents just left," the mouse said. "They usually don't give up that easily."

"I'm absolutely sure the house is under surveillance. Most probably from some nearby car. Laser mikes, phone line connection. Full package."

"I've got mine, too, don't worry," the inventor took off her utility belt and started rummaging through its bags. "Shall we wait until he falls asleep?"

"Yes. Although the computer will have to wait until he goes away."

"Why didn't you call Dale and Foxy?" Gadget asked, tensing inwardly. She was actually glad Chip hadn't done it, but couldn't understand his reasons. That is, she could one reason closest to the surface, but she didn't like it very much.

"I don't want to disturb them without need, especially now when they've just unmade the conflict and their leave even under the most reasonable pretext will be considered a sign of weakness and cowardice."

Gadget didn't saw this option at all, but now, after Chip's answer, it seemed both obvious and the only correct one.

"Wow," she said with poorly covered amazement with her husband's astuteness and foresight. "And I, truth be told, thought you didn't want to see him after tonight."

Chip cleared his throat. "I'd say that he has more reasons to evade me after tonight."

Gadget pricked up her ears. "Meaning?"

"Didn't he tell you on your way there?"

"Well," the mouse lowered her head and began thoughtfully plucking at her tools. "He wasn't quite…"

"Remember me tearing his collar off? When he was leaving, I threw the pieces into his face and told him I didn't need anyone else's belongings."

Gadget screamed.

"What?!" Chip turned to her.

"Nuffing," Gadget said with her finger in her mouth. "Pficked myshelf."

"How badly? Any blood? Let me have a look!" the chipmunk jumped up to her, embraced her paw tenderly and blew on the injured finger. "Better?"

"It's just a scratch, Chip! But thanks."

"You're welcome. Basically, that's it. In short, I was intolerable and I hope he bears no grudge against me."

"No grudge," Gadget assured him. "He forgave you almost instantly. You know, he cools down fast. Like you."

Chip lowered his eyes on their entwined paws. "I wouldn't say so. Dale quickly heats up and cools down quickly. I heat up slowly, but when I do, it's really hard to stop me. And the most interesting thing is I have no idea where it came from afterwards."

"But I do," Gadget caressed his forehead with her free hand. "You're the leader; it's hard for you, much harder than it is for us. But you can't afford yourself what Dale, Monty or Sparky can, not to mention me, Tammy and Foxy. So you used to accumulate everything like a flywheel, and then you go off crushing everything in your way. You just need to learn to control yourself and open your valve in time; and to be sparing of yourself, too."

"Yeah, maybe. That's another reason why I didn't called Dale here. I am counting that his experience of working with WaGuS will allow him to develop leadership skills he's lacking, and that he will be able to substitute me someday, even if only partially…"

The mouse froze biting her lip. Chip's words, so simple and logical, jangled her nerves with their ambiguity, which she was looking for against for will and found easily. There must be a reason for it, there simply must be…

_No, no!_ she kept reassuring herself. "It's not like that! Everything's fine!" But she couldn't calm down feeling overwhelming desire to get things off her chest. She understood the dangers of it, and her previous unsuccessful attempts of talking frankly to her husband seemed a sky-sign. _Maybe it would be better to let the sleeping dogs lie?_ she thought, and the answer was rather 'yes' than 'no', but she felt she couldn't hold it. She must make another attempt. And let roll, as they say…

"Listen, Chip, I… I must—"

Chipmunk raised his head and moved his ears. "Heard anything?"

"No, I—"

Chip let her paw go, crawled to the sofa's corner leg and listened intently.

"Ears must be playing tricks on me. He must be upstairs. At least, I hear nothing now," he pointed at the tools on Gadget's belt. "Are those all mini-plungers we've got?"

"These? No, of course not! There should be five more at least in the Gyrotank."

"Very good. We need to rest well, the day was a nervous one… But first we'll go to the garage and retrieve the plungers. I have a feeling we'll need them tomorrow. So, my beloved Rescue Rangeress, away?"

"Away!" Gadget acknowledged putting her belt back on. She couldn't do it. Again. _Maybe it wasn't meant to be…_ she thought as she was sneaking after Chip about the house, modest by human standards but enormous for rodents. _Maybe it's for the better…_ Slightly relieved by these thoughts, she started watching where she stepped, for there are many more sources of accidental noise in modern houses than it could seem from humans' height.

But this time their efforts to maintain silence were unneeded. Stan Blather used an opportunity to sleep it out to the full. For the last several years sleeping pills were an inseparable part of his personal ritual of going to bed, but while working on the program he got so exhausted he could sleep without it. Today, though, he felt an explosive mixture of tiredness and agitation and drank some intending to sleep till noon at the very least. That's why he heard neither the Rescue Rangers steps, nor his cell phone's vibrating in silent mode, nor his stationary phone ringing which echoed throughout the house for the good part of the night. The avalanche started by his 'Special Investigation' was just getting momentum, but the events were already unfolding very, very fast…


	4. Chapter 3 Death and Destruction

**Chapter 3**

**Death and Destruction**

* 11 *

_Day Second, night—morning_

"Hello. Sorry for calling so late. Is it television?"

"Yes, Channel Four. I'm listening."

"You know, today, I mean, it's yesterday already, they spoke on TV about the Capitol Incident and all those mice-killers… Know what I mean?"

"Of course I do! Do you have any information on the subject?"

"I think I do. They showed that photo of that biologist, Doctor Snow, if I recall correctly, am I right?"

"Yes-yes, it's correct."

"So I think I know where they're keeping him."

"Excuse me, who's keeping him?"

"Well, the guys, the CIA. I mean, they're probably CIA, I didn't ask."

"Just a minute…"

"Are you interested?"

"Of course I am! Can you tell me your name?"

"Uhm, can't we skip the names, eh? No, I understand your mistrust for all these anonymous calls but I'd really prefer not to disclose my identity, you understand?"

"I do. So where are they keeping him?"

"Twelfth Street North-West, building 1901."

"Wait, what? …It's in Washington?"

"Yeah, Washington, DC."

"And what's there?"

"There? Well, some building, office building, I don't know. I hadn't been inside."

"No, wait, are you serious? The man involved in such a conspiracy is kept in an ordinary office building in the center of the capital?"

"Well, I'm sorry, I have no idea why they're keeping him there. I just know they're keeping him there. Or they might be."

"Might be?"

"At least, they put him there a little more than a month ago. Or maybe he was there for some time only, I don't know."

"How do you know it?"

"I saw it."

"Saw it?"

"Yeah, saw it. I've got a photo even."

"So you didn't just see but also photographed him brought there?"

"No, I didn't photograph him brought there. I photographed my relatives, remote relatives, on the corner of Eleventh North-West and T North-West. And I captured him being brought out."

"Brought out?"

"Yeah, out of car. Large black minivan, or how is that car called, they use it in all those action movies. A large off-roader… I'm sure you know it!"

"Well, I guess I do. And you took a picture of him?"

"Yeah, it happened so. I remember browsing through the photos and thinking, hey, I must have caught some feds, well, you know, conspiracy theories and the like… And when they showed him today, and said that we'll never find out what happened to him, I ran to look through those photos and found that it was him. One face. And bald to boot."

"And you recognized him? From a distance and after all this time?"

"Oh, you insult me! I've got one beast of a camera! It's not some point-and-shoot, it's a professional reflex! It takes all pictures in RAW, I mean I take all pictures in RAW to have the best quality, for I am really picky about the quality, you know! As for recognizing — of course I recognized him! I've got a professional facial memory, photographic. Can't do without it, you know."

"Well, that's an interesting version for sure—"

"'Version' you say? Don't believe me, do you? Want me to send you a photo? Have you got a color fax there?"

"Yes, sure. Same number, but ends with zero, not nine."

"Sending, wait a sec."

"You've got a second phone there?"

"No, I'm speaking through Skype and sending the image through PamFax. Handy thing, although expensive at times… Alright, it's sent. Are you getting it there?"

"It's printing… What is this?"

"Well, the photo I've been talking about! The upper one is the original, don't mind the white region, I erased the relatives, don't want to make any extra troubles for them. That building and those cars are in the distance to the right. I added the zoomed fragment below for convenience."

"Wait a minute…"

"So what? It's him? It's him, yes? I know my eyes are in order, the profession obliges!"

"I don't know what to say, mister… The similarity is amazing, but… You didn't draw it yourself, right?"

"What for?"

"Well, I don't know… Why are you calling, by the way?"

"Why am I calling? I want you to know the truth and tell people the truth, that's what I want! I want nothing else! You don't believe me, do you?"

"Well, you see, we're getting many calls—"

"And all of them sent you photos? All of them?! Or maybe someone didn't?!"

"No, you're the first one…"

"And you are the first one I'm calling, mind you! I often watch your channel, especially the Saturdays' show and the evening news on Fridays with Jeff… Jeff…"

"Rodriguez."

"Right! I remember, the surname like that film director's! And his news is a thing! You're watching him and you're believing he won't fail you and tell everything as is, and you want to follow his example! And when I realized whom I had pictured I said to myself: Jeff must tell people about it! Had he picked up the phone, I'm sure he'd have believed me! Because Jeff knows where the truth is! He knows it, you see! It's in his blood!"

"Please, wait a second—"

"No way! I've spent so much money on you, and all in vain! They say that truth can't be bought for money for a reason! And I thought I could do it, old fool… Alright, if you don't want to investigate it, then forget about it. And tell Jeff to leave you, for his sharpened sense of truth is no match for you! But don't worry, he won't be unemployed for long, you aren't the only TV station in the city! Not the only one, remember it! People must know the truth, and they will know the truth! Cheerio!"

"Wait! Wait a second…"

Same or similar conversations between nightshift operators of Washington's eight largest TV stations and the anonymous truth seeker occurred that night from 11 PM through 2 AM. In all cases the stranger mentioned the exact address and sent a retouched photo taken, according to the date in the corner, thirty five days ago, which showed someone very closely resembling Doctor Snow accompanied by four stalwart plain-clothed men entering one of generic office buildings abundant in the north-western part of the capital. In all cases the stranger responded to the operator's natural surprise and distrust by calling him or her 'an enemy of truth' (in various wordings) and explicitly hinted at his intention to call 'another truly honest TV station'. In all cases the call resulted in the corresponding TV station's camera crew rushing to the specified address not so much to confirm or confute the caller's words as to arrive at the scene before the competitors. Very soon the quiet intersection of Twelfth Street North-West and T Street North-West was heavily crowded with camera crews and their apparatus occupying the best vantage points, and the nearest 24-hour café had so many customers that it seemed a perfect time to think about expansion.

The initial delicate attempts to find out anything specific about the building in question hit a solid wall of incomprehension and silence from the security guards posted in the lobby. They flatly refused to let the reporters inside referring to the company policy and commercial confidentiality, and when asked about the company's name they advised everybody to go away and stop intruding. Such a preposterous disregard of rights and freedoms of democratic press couldn't remain unpunished, and the first reports from the site were awash with aggravation, bitterness and staunch belief that something was wrong. Sensing blood, the sharks of media business activated all their channels and soon the question of who the office complex at 1901 Twelfth Street North-West belonged to became a headache of the city hall and the city council.

But the answers they gave made the situation even less clear, for all these vague wordings and impersonal interjections suggested a lot of mutually exclusive and reality contradicting options including conclusion that the building had been demolished ten years ago and nobody planned to ever rebuild it. The building was missing from Google Street View photos, too, that is why Ray McNamara, a sharp-tongued reporter from Channel Nine (local branch of the WBC conglomerate) began all his live broadcasts with the phrase "We're reporting from nowhere."

The building in question looked empty, indeed, and only the presence of the guards in the lobby indicated that it wasn't completely abandoned. There were no lights, nobody came in or out. It looked like an ordinary office complex extinct for the night, except it had a few more security cameras than usual and the parking lot along the northern and the eastern walls wasn't empty as could be expected. Unfortunately, the café that first became the coffee and then the information Mecca was located too far from the intersection, and the owner couldn't tell how many cars and which of them belonged to the complex employees. Although the fact that exactly half of parking places were occupied hinted at the existence of day and night shifts equal in size and thus in functions, too. Another interesting observation which could turn out a simple coincidence but still received a nation-wide coverage for the mere reason that there was nothing else to report about.

On the contrary, the people gathered in the conference room on the fifth floor of the building 1901 had plenty of topics to discuss. There were a little more of them than the cars on the parking lot for some of them lived close enough to get to work by foot. But at the moment they were as close to their homes as they were to the Moon, and this question was the first on their agenda of the day, or rather, of the night.

Leroy Jackson, a bulky 50-year old Afro-American with wide wrinkled forehead, determined double chin and diploma of Harvard Business School, presided over the meeting. As the head of this unofficial office of National Clandestine Service, a branch of CIA that took up the baton of HUMINT from discontinued Directorate of Operations and was responsible for coordinating joint efforts of the Agency and other members of the Intelligence Community in conducting covert operations around the globe, he was forced to answer his subordinates' questions at the moment. The longer he did it, citing the instructions he received from his superiors over and over, the more he felt himself left to his own devices, but he didn't show it. The fifth man in the NCS hierarchy is not supposed to panic.

"No," he said when they asked him whether they would leave the building at 8 AM as they always did. "All those who were going to replace us received clear instructions not to come to work today to avoid any contacts with the press. For the same reason all of us will stay here, in the building, until the situation normalizes. I earnestly ask those who hasn't done it yet to call their families or significant ones and warn them not to come here looking for you. This confinement is temporary, I assure you, and the building has everything needed for a month of autonomous functioning."

"They have it, too!" the head of the analytical division shouted. He was a father of three, he had long started to grew bald and blind, and he was distressed by the prospects of spending the nearest week within the confines of four walls. "Then again, is the task of evacuating the personnel of one, I stress it, one office too hard for the CIA? This isn't some uninhabited island!"

"It's the stone jungle, Tom, it's far worse!" the lead programmer Jake Armstrong couldn't help but wedge in a joke. He was one of the few who took their predicament stoically and with a touch of humor, probably because he was a recluse by nature and saw no big difference between his office cubicle here and his computer desk on the attic of his suburban house. Not everybody shared his optimism, but everybody smiled.

"Stone jungle…" Tom scowled. "In stone jungles all decent buildings have cellars connected with the neighboring buildings! And we don't even have the underground garage! What kind of genius thought it was a good idea to bring the man like Snow through the front door where any fool could catch him on his camera?"

"Nobody could have foreseen this, Mister Gerald," Jackson objected trying to keep his voice steady. "And, by the way, it was your division the recommendation to seal all the passages to the neighboring buildings came from."

The head analyst had nothing to counter it with, so he voiced another of his concerns. "Alright, why don't we let them in, then?"

Leroy had asked his superiors this question already, so he answered quickly and without hesitation. "This is a top-secret government facility, trespassing is strictly forbidden."

"Come on, Mister Jackson! We aren't some secret lab, they won't see anything supernatural here!"

"What about the patient?"

"Oh god, we'll hide him where they'll never find him!"

_I know,_ Jackson thought. _I told them the same. And them…_ Unfortunately, the chiefs of 'Slavic Closet', as the operation aimed at uncovering and destroying the terrorist organization known as Black Table was codenamed, didn't yield. So now it was his turn to behave like a true commander and turn his superiors' orders into his own with a deadpan. "Probably. But rules are rules, and we can't take any risks. And we can't be sure that enemy agents won't infiltrate the building disguised as the press."

"I don't want to sound imposing," the head of security, a mustached man with mighty torso and no less mighty biceps overfilling the sleeves of his loose jacket, joined the conversation. "But as for me, it's too late to worry about it."

His words caused clamor in the room and Jackson had to hit his palm against the table to establish silence again.

"I see what you are leading up to, Mister Dylan," he spoke threateningly and in a raised voice. "So I'll get right to the point: there won't be any witch-hunt! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, and tell your people to do the same! No 'inner' or 'private' inquiries, no 'simple curiosity'! Everybody here went through the strictest selection procedure, I trust everyone and expect the same from you! We're a team here! Any questions?!"

"No questions," Dylan enunciated. He was obviously dissatisfied with his boss' response, but it was clear he wasn't going to oppose him, at least for now, and that was good enough.

"Thank you," Leroy nodded. "Any other questions, and I do mean _other_ questions? No? Very good. Then I suggest we finish for now. The situation is under control, and if we don't do any foolish things, it will remain under control. We all knew what agency we sent our CVs to, and I assure you, this is neither the first nor the last time we're forced to work under special conditions. So I ask you to take it as a routine emergency and keep working. When new instructions arrive, you'll be the first to know it. Thanks for understanding!"

His subordinates weren't really satisfied with his answers, but they had lived and worked for NCS long enough to know they shouldn't have expected anything else. So everybody got up and headed towards the exit. Only two people stood out of the obedient crowd: Tom Gerald who continued boiling loudly over the stupidity of their situation and a young dark-skinned man who was crossing the flow heading towards Jackson's table, which was duly noted by witty Armstrong.

"Oh, Sammy, how could we forget about you! Maybe you'll make your uncle listen to reason?"

The young man waved him off without looking at him, and Jake left him be with a short laugh. Leroy didn't even bother admonishing him. The incident was already resolved and it was a wrong time for nags and hassle.

"What do you think, Mister Jackson?" Leroy asked when they were alone.

Samuel Jackson, NCS junior investigator, smiled nervously. "You know, sir, Dylan's right…"

"I know," Leroy agreed. He took his nephew's official manners as granted and the only right way. He knew that his decision to accept Samuel into his division as a trainee would provoke gossips and significantly influence everybody's attitude towards the lad, but he was confident it was a nice way to harden his character and spirit. In any case, the assessment of Jackson Junior would be written by his immediate superior Henry Berry, chief investigator. A man of principle and meticulousness, he was hard to please, even harder if he thought you got a position owing to connections, not merits, and he would squeeze you dry until proven otherwise. That's why Leroy had no worries about his nephew, knowing well that his service under Berry wouldn't damp his ardor but make him a real professional.

"And you still rejected his suggestion outright."

"Yes. They only do harm and paralyze the work. Also it shouldn't be our concern. I'm sure this variant is being worked out upstairs now and everyone's file is studied under a microscope. Our goal is avoiding a scandal."

Sammy smiled sourly. "Well, it's too late to worry about it already. I think we should have let them all inside right away, without waiting for instructions. They would have thought it was somebody's joke and left, and now we won't drive them off even with tanks."

"The superiors have their reasons. Truth be told, if I were them, I wouldn't risk, too."

"Did they say how they plan to get us out of here?"

Leroy Jackson shrugged. "They said they're working on it. Probably will use helicopters. It won't be discreet, but we can't do anything covertly already, and we will still have a space for maneuvering this way. At least that's my view of the situation. Alright, what have you got there?"

"All the same," Samuel answered handing his uncle a disk in paper envelope with today's date written in mark pen. "That is, almost nothing."

"You don't believe him?"

"It's too incredible even after everything we've seen."

"Yeah, yeah…" Leroy thoughtfully squeezed his lower lip with his fingers. "Alright, go have some rest."

"You should rest, too, sir."

"No-no", the elder Jackson smiled and tapped his finger against the disk. "That's what I need right now. Study it and prepare the questions list. Does he know what's going on?"

"No, we let go of him two hours ago. He's asleep now."

"So when he wakes up in the morning, there will be a surprise waiting for him… We could use that… Alright, dismissed. Let the grown-ups do their work."

"Yes, sir!" Sammy stood at attention and left the room in marching step. Leroy saw him off, his eyes full of fatherly love and recognition of himself in this age, than he rose with a grunt and went to his office. Waking up his computer by moving the mouse, he inserted the disk and immersed into an interrogation of Doctor Snow, taking notes in his jotter from time to time.

…

The camera is mounted in the corner of the room above the door, so it captures the tiniest gestures and mimics nuances of Archibald Snow. Berry personally conducts interrogation. Nobody else is in the room, but most probably there is someone behind the one-sided mirror behind the scientist's back whose white lab coat is replaced with a grey robe with no pockets. Maybe even all the members of the investigation group are there.

"What can you say about the TV show, Archibald?"

The scientist curls his lips, apparently mimicking Hannibal Lecter, and draws a wide circle in the air with his fingers. "That you've got a hole thi-i-is big in your famed security!"

Even if Snow's phrase insulted Berry, his face shows no signs of it. "That's got nothing to do with our case. Get to the point."

Seeing his chambered performance has no effect, the might-have-been Nobel Prize winner shades off. "To the point? I've told you this point many times already!"

"So you keep insisting you didn't plan to assassinate the President?"

"And you keep not believing me?"

"Your words contradict the facts."

Snow laughs. His laughter is absolutely unlabored. Previously he never managed to feign his cheer convincingly, so his emotions are sincere. That is important, and Jackson notes it down.

"What facts? The ones that Blather told? So you believe him? You fully trust the theatrics of some reporter for whom it's just a paid job, right?"

"Theatrics is better than working for an enemy."

Scientist's laughter is abruptly cut with a rippling cough, and Jackson feels as if watching a boxing match. One of the boxers opened up a bit — and here comes a crushing blow. Berry is the master of it…

"Listen—"

"How much money they paid you for General Haddahm's death?"

"Million."

"And for the President?"

"Nothing—"

"Right! Because you didn't fulfill the order and they pay you by piece!"

"There was no order!"

Despite the pressure from investigator's side, Snow manages to pull himself up. Fast, Jackson notes and concludes: he got the hang of it. Berry is a strong opponent, but familiar. And Snow had probably got used to interrogations long ago. Jackson wondered how many investigators had worked with Snow already. And why Henry wasn't involved up from the start? Why they brought Snow here instead of re-assigning Berry to the group working with him? Well, the change of scenery and suspect's nervousness it causes is always handy. Although what change are we talking about here? One room with a bed for another room with a bed. Not to mention getting caught on camera for no particular reason…

"No order you say? Where did that mouse in the box and cyanide in the syringe came from?"

"I told you—"

"Yes, yes, some Paw Patrol attacked you and freed all the animals including the MAP which later switched on by itself and attacked the President…"

"Henry, listen—"

"Mister Berry."

Snow is clearly lost. "But yesterday we—"

"That was yesterday! I'm Mister Berry for you now, and I want to know how much they promised you for killing the President!"

"They didn't ask me to kill the President!"

"And whom they did ask you to kill?"

"General Haddahm."

"That's all?"

"That's all. There was no time."

"Why?"

"The MAP escaped."

"It just waltzed out of your lab?"

"No, of course not. She was assisted by those two chipmunks."

"The two chipmunks Ferrante got from Bio-Tech, yes?"

"Yes."

"But it's impossible, for Bio-Tech rejected your offer. You heard Wasserman on TV."

"He's lying!"

"So it's him who is lying now?"

"Well…" Snow scratches his nose nervously. "Well, they must have forged the letters then!"

"Who are they?"

"The chipmunks!"

"You really think that rodents are capable of forging the letters, locating the lab, cutting through the window, and getting all other animals out?"

"Exactly! They also punctured all the tires and shaved the guard dogs' heads!"

"Archibald, are you serious?"

"YES!" Snow shouts. He always painfully reacted to distrust in his words, but it's the first time he shouts. This should be noted, too…

"Yes?"

"Yes! I saw them! I held their plane in my hands!"

"You call a leaky plastic bottle with some gears poured inside it 'a plane'?"

"What about the wings? The dashboard?"

"And everything is broken and smashed to smithereens. I heard that already. Anything else?"

"One of the chipmunks dropped his hat!"

"And you tore it and threw it away in a feat of rage. Very convenient."

Snow leans over the table, and their noses almost collide. "And how do you explain a container with miniature secret compartments? Terrarium smashed with a fire extinguisher? Raised alarm? Runaway animals? How?!"

The NCS investigator meets this onslaught with absolute calm. The opponents gimlet one another for some time, but even his glasses doesn't help Snow to withstand the gaze of the hardened professional, and he sits back on his chair.

"It's simple." Berry says impassively as if neither the shouting nor the gaze duel never happened. "The expertise established that the window is cut from the inside—"

"Yes! That's what I mean! From the inside!"

"—which suggests that you did it yourself—"

"Me?! But what for?!"

"—after getting rid of the animals. After that your partner raised the alarm and, while you were distracting the guards outside, he demolished the room where the MAP was being kept, spilled the fire extinguisher on the floor and left. He also punctured the tires on all the cars. All except one, of course, for you needed to get to Washington somehow and bring the cages with the MAP and the hit-rats with you. Then you devised this story with the MAP getting away because you realized you can't get away with the second suspicious death."

"Nonsense…"

"Not at all. When Haddahm was killed, MacMillan started suspecting that something fishy was going on. That's why he called you that night. We found the recording of that conversation on his computer, so there's no point in denying it. So you decided to blame the government experiment that went out of control for the death of the President. You are smart, no doubt, so you thought everything to the smallest detail. You even tore apart a generic animal container and added 'secret compartments' to it. But you came up with too elaborate and incredible story, and failed miserably. What would you say?"

"It's all hogwash!"

"And the testimony of your accomplice, Ferrante, is hogwash, too?"

"Ferrante? Did he—"

"He admitted everything."

Snow leans back on his chair and looks at the investigator in silence for some time.

"Not true."

"Shall I demonstrate the recording? Or let you read his testimony?"

"Don't consider me an idiot! Yes, I'm biologist, but I understand a little about the modern technology and I know you can draw anything you want with a computer these days! But even you broke him, tortured him, injected him or did whatever you usually do to him, and he admitted everything you pinned on him, it proves nothing! Because you are wrong and I know the TRUTH!"

"What truth, Archibald? Yours?"

"Listen to me!" the scientist hits the table with his fist, then immediately grasps his wounded palm grimacing with pain and turning the outburst of righteous wrath into a farce. "Listen to me, Henry—"

"Mister Berry."

"Whatever! Maybe you could finally tell me! Why are you keeping me in all your prisons, why do you pretend I don't even exist, why do you interrogate me ten times a day, if you don't believe me?! You know better than me how everything happened! You even have Ferrante's testament! What is this for?!"

"Because we don't know the names of those who employed you to kill Haddahm and President Logan."

"You don't know them, too!"

"So you do acknowledge they employed you to murder the President?"

"No, they didn't employ me for that!"

Berry allows himself to show emotions. He parts his hands widely and smiles ironically. "But Archibald, you've just said—"

"I said nothing! You turn everything on the head! Say openly that you just need to close the case and find some scapegoats! That you need not the truth but statistics!"

"Alright, let's suppose for a minute that you're telling the truth—"

"And thank goodness for that!"

"—but still, who employed you to kill Haddahm?"

"Black Table."

"A furniture piece?"

"No, they're calling themselves that."

"Who are they?"

"I've no idea!"

"You agreed to work for someone you didn't know?"

"They proved they should be taken seriously."

"How?"

"I've told your colleagues already!"

"I know it. So?"

Snow uses his sleeve to wipe his bald head sparkling with sweat.

"Okay. It began—"

"Just a minute!" Berry interrupts him abruptly, then looks at his watch and clicks his tongue helplessly. "We've spent too much time where, Archibald. We'll continue tomorrow morning."

"Wait, but you wanted—"

"I'm sorry, but my shift has ended."

Make the client talk and cut the conversation short. Interesting technique. Now Snow will spend the whole time till the next interrogation thinking about it only. And knowing what he'll be asked first, he'll try to prepare his answer beforehand, build as believable version as possible. Change this, reformulate that, replace one thing with another. And then Berry will catch him on contradictions with his previous testimonies…

"Not true! You shift started just two hours ago!"

…

Jackson hemmed respectfully and applauded the doctor mentally. A clever man, indeed. He's been here for a not very long time, but he already learned the shifts schedule. Apparently, it's time to bring in someone fresh.

_Yeah, fresh…_

Leroy closed the file, then uploaded one of its copies to the local network storage and sent the other to the CIA database via the secure channel. Then he composed his notes into a text file with detailed recommendations and sent it to Berry's internal mailbox. Whatever happens, the order must be kept.

When the computer signaled that upload was finished successfully, the elder Jackson sent it back into a stand-by mode and stretched. According to his working schedule, he wasn't supposed to sleep at the moment, but since he had slept fifteen hours in total in the last four days, and the following days promised to be even tenser, he decided to take advantage of the pause and sleep till dawn at least. All his communication devices were by his side, so if he was needed, they would wake him up.

Switching his table lamp off, Jackson confidently walked to the sofa in darkness and lay down. He took only his jacket off in order not to crumple it. He stretched out, closed his eyes, rolled his pupils up, and in just five minutes he was sleeping deeply and dreamlessly and he never knew that all this time he was being watched by four thousand pairs of eyes. They were so tiny, though, that they easily fitted the head of a small green fly already flying through the maze of ventilation shafts to the roof where it was awaited by a full-fledged convertiplane with fly-by-light control system and its news-hungry passengers.

"Uh-hu," Monterey Jack said thoughtfully when Zipper finished his detailed report. "So that anonymous photographer really hit the jackpot!"

"And we along with him!" Sparky joined his triumph. It was his idea to settle on the roof of the local WBC network channel that allowed him to trail the camera crew van to this very building.

"Great-great-great!" Tammy explained overcome with jolly agitation. She rubbed her small fists in anticipation. "We found Snow! No matter how well they hid him, we still found him! Hooray!"

"Hooray indeed," the Aussie agreed. "And three times hooray to the CIA people who don't believe him! We can feel relieved now!"

"_If they didn't believe Nimnul who'd been to our HQ, why would they believe Snow?"_ Zipper squeaked.

"Right, buddy! I am starting to feel myself a ghost no one believes to exist as of late!" Monty laughed. His friends could tell the same about themselves, so his simplistic joke was a huge success.

"Alright, mates," Monterey said wiping his tired eyes. "One of our tasks here is done. Snow is found. Now we mustn't lose him. How are they planning to get him out of here, you say? By helicopters? That's good, they are easy to follow. But…"

He looked around and his friends understood his concerns. There was no dedicated and marked helipad on the roof, but it was completely devoid of any protrusions or service buildings aside from a concrete cube containing an elevator cabin, on the roof of which they had settled. This set-up allowed helicopters to land here. They were even expected to, given several landing lights buried into the roof, switched off at the moment.

"They prepared well!" Tammy observed.

"Too right!" the mustached mouse confirmed. "It reminds me of a secret airfield of those African spiny mice smugglers. It's runway was made of dozens of kitchen graters. It was kept under the sand most of the time, but when someone familiar came flying, they raised it, the sand went into the holes, and you could land with your eyes shut! The wheels had to be replaced often, though! There was a time…"

In absence of both organized Chip and impatient Dale Monty could talk for hours forgetting his exhaustion entirely and enjoying the Tammy's and Sparky's attention. They've never heard these stories before, so listened with his mouths and ears agape. So Zipper had to play the role of the referee signaling the end of the match with his whistle.

"…And so he comes flying and— OUCH!" Monterey jerked startled by a loud buzzing right above his ear. "What was it, Zipper? Got carried away? Oh, yeah, right… I just wanted to say we ought to find a safer place to hide."

"We can hide behind the elevator," Tammy stamped her foot against the concrete.

Monterey shook his head. "Risky. They will get Snow through here, and they will look under every stone. Even lay people in the shop almost caught us, and I'm afraid to think what kangaroo race the trained agents will make us do! No! It's too dangerous to stay here! We should go… there!" he pointed at the neighboring building. "All aboard!"

Had the Rescue Rangers known what awaited them, they would have flown non-stop to Virginia. But they hadn't, so they comfortable settled on the roof of the building across the parking lot. It was three floors higher than the NCS building and it had a perfect view of the surroundings. Due the darkness there was little to look at, and Monterey decided to set camp at long last. Leaving Sparky as the most energetic of them all in all the senses of the word on guard, the other Rangers lay down in the Wing. Its seats had movable armrests and could be easily converted into three cozy full-sized cots. Soon the sounds of Washington nights were complemented by Monterey Jack's mighty snoring. Sparky went to the edge of the roof and looked at the secret NCS base and the press vans surrounding it. Like the Wing, they became a sleeping camp for the reporters exhausted with their live streams. Only a handful of people stood by the cameras aimed at the 'haunted house'.

"Such a grand screw-up for the CIA," Sparky muttered to himself. "One failure after another—"

"What was it, Sparks?"

Sparky was surprised into almost falling from the roof. "Tammy?" he asked in loud whisper turning around towards a sound source.

"Yes," the squirrel answered. "Please, forgive me. I didn't want to scare you."

"It's nothing," the rat smiled. "Monty snorts so loudly I wouldn't be able to hear an elephant herd approaching. You can't sleep because of him?"

"Well, partially," coming up to the edge, Tammy carefully looked down, and the upstream of air fallowed the flaps of her shirt. In HQ she wore a medical overall most of the time, but always changed into jeans and untucked shirt at the first opportunity. Even after growing up she wasn't going to abandon the style she got used to, simple and practical, even though it allowed Dale to call her Doctor Nuthouse with or without reason. "It's so high… Aren't you afraid?"

"Of heights? No, I wouldn't say that. At least I'd remember that."

The Rescue Rangers nominal nurse giggled and turned away in confusion. She didn't like it when her friends joked about Sparky's forgetfulness and tried hard to avoid it herself, strictly following the principle "don't make fun of the handicapped". Especially such extraordinary ones as Sparky whose ability to accumulate and hold an electric charge in his body stroke her (metaphorically) as something truly amazing.

"You were saying something about the CIA," she said to end an awkward silence.

"CIA?" Sparky looked down again. "Oh, yeah, right! I said… Wait, I said that?"

"Yes, I heard it! Or have you— Forget about it!"

"No-no, I remember, it's not the case. I didn't notice I said it aloud. An old habit."

"Thinking aloud?"

"Yes. Speaking to myself in general. It's just that, I don't know, when you say something, you understand it better, remember it better, and sometimes the ideas come as if by themselves, which I'd never come up with on my own. It's like hearing somebody else's advice and see the light.

"Very interesting," Tammy sat beside him. "So what about the CIA?"

"CIA? Oh, I just thought they were really unlucky lately. First the info leak into the media, now this."

"You think there something's going on here?"

"I don't know. I'm not really into this stuff. You should ask Chip for that."

"Oh, come on!" the squirrel patted his cloth-covered shoulder trying hard not to make her motions look cautious. "You've made a really neat play with that letter! Great, just great!"

"The letter? Oh, that letter… Thanks! But I just got lucky. Many things in my life happened by chance. That's how I met the Rangers, and the Professor, too."

Tammy knew the story of the scientist's meeting with the Rangers, but it was the first time Sparky mentioned meeting Nimnul.

"And how did you meet him?"

"He bought me in a pet shop. Me and Buzz. That is, he wasn't Buzz at the time, the Professor gave the name to him."

"Wow…" Tammy was deeply impressed. "So it's not his real name?"

"No, it is. He has no other name, after all. Just like me, by the way."

"Wait… You mean, 'Sparky' isn't real name, too? I would've never thought!"

The scientist hemmed. "Can you imagine parents naming their child that way?"

Tammy shrugged. "Well, Gadget was named by her parents."

"That's different. It's their family tradition." Sparky lowered his gaze for a second, but Tammy noticed it.

"Sparky, will you… forgive me a personal question?"

The lab rat looked at her from under the brows, but allowed. "Ask."

"You… like Gadget?"

"What do you mean?" Sparky raised his brows in surprise.

Tammy blushed. "Well… I mean… it. Or how should I put it…"

"Ah, I get it now," Sparky smiled flashing his teeth. "No, I'm not jealous of her love for Chip. I'm glad that she's back and they're happy."

"Me too!" Tammy nodded heartily. But she relaxed too early, for it was Sparky's turn to ask tough questions.

"Now, what would you say about Chip?"

"What about Chip?"

Sparky rolled his eyes. "Well, I was told that when you met him for the first time…"

Tammy flared up like a floodlight. "Let's not talk about it!"

"About what?"

Tammy glanced at Sparky suspiciously. He tilted his head a bit to the side and watched her, waiting for her answer. He forgot it. Great opportunity to change the topic.

"I have long wanted to ask you, how do you manage it? I mean, accumulate the current and hit with it?"

"I don't accumulate current," the scientist objected. "I accumulate free electric charge which is neutralized when I touch a conductor. At that moment instantaneous electric current appears creating ionized conductive channel in the air seen as sparks…"

Tammy listened to Sparky who was on a roll, forgetting of everything around her and feeling herself a boor and a lucky one having an honor to listen to such a master. Positive emotions prevailed, and she thought that was how Chip must fell in Gadget's company…

"…and that's it!" Sparky finished. "Did I forget something?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. I don't care. How do you do it?"

"Either as a result of triboelectric effect or, simply put, physical contact, including friction, or under the influence of electromagnetic induction. Just like everyone else."

"Everyone else?" Tammy couldn't believe her ears. "And me, too?"

"Of course! Try to scrape your hands against your hair and then touch something conducting electricity! There will be a spark like mine!"

"Oh, no, I know that already, Dale showed it to me. But that's different, that happens spontaneously."

"Well, in my case it's spontaneous, too."

"What?" the squirrel frowned. "Don't you know how to control it?"

"Who, me?" Sparky laughed. "Of course not!"

"But just today, that is, yesterday, in the supermarket, you controlled it!"

"Really? I don't seem to remember."

"No, really! When I asked you to close your ears, you closed mine, with both hands! And I wasn't shocked!"

"Then I wasn't charged enough at the time."

Tammy grew sad. "And that's it?"

Sparky made a helpless gesture. "That's it. I don't decide when to shock and when not to shock. If there is a charge on me, I'll shock the one I touch first. And if there isn't, I won't shock anybody even if I want it badly."

"So that's why you grabbed my hair."

"Yes. Your hair is great!"

"Really?"

"Yes! It's very thick and tousy! The higher the friction, the faster the charge builds up… What?" he asked as Tammy sniveled loudly and looked away with hands crossed on her chest.

"Nothing!" she answered, insulted.

"Did I upset you somehow?"

"No! Everything's fine!"

"Why are you fuming, then?"

"I'm not fuming!"

"And what are you doing?"

"I'm charging up!"

"Oh, I see… How long have you been here? I don't seem to…"

"No, it's hopeless!" Tammy exclaimed and started to rise but Sparky grabbed her sleeve.

"Okay, Tammy, I'm sorry! Don't be angry! I was joking!"

The young Rescue Ranger slowly turned to him. "What?"

"I was joking! I remember everything!"

"You mean, everything-everything?"

Sparky scratched his head. "Well, not quite, of course. I have some lapses, it can't be helped. But I remember our entire conversation!"

"And about Chip, too?"

"Chip?" Sparky though deeply. "No, I remember nothing about Chip. What about him?"

"Nothing, just checking," Tammy sat down again. "So you asking how long I was here…"

"It's a joke. Just a joke."

"What for?"

"Well, to raise your spirits. I'm sorry it turned out this way."

"No-no, it's okay!" Tammy patted his paw, having completely forgotten of a danger of being shocked, and felt a short sting. "Ouch!"

"Oh!" Sparky jerked his hand away and looked at his paw with its fur standing upright. "How did it happen? Tammy, I'm sorry!"

"It's nothing," Tammy blew on her affected finger. "So you say I can do that, too?"

"Sure!"

"And you say I've got tousy hair?"

"Yes, but what— OUCH!" Sparky shouted when Tammy, having quickly rubbed her plait, clasped his paw with hers, causing some real short circuit. Sparky's fur and hair stood on end, his pupils moved away, and his mouth opened revealing rows of fitfully clenched teeth.

"SPARKS! SPARKS!" Terrified Tammy began tugging her fuming friend.

"Mhm… Uh… Whm…" Sparky mumbled. His loosely hanging tongue was slowly regaining sensitivity, but he was yet unable to speak clearly. "Twas shtrongh…"

"Sparky, lay down!" Tammy held her friend helping him to lay down on his left side. "Better now?"

"Yeah… Amazing… It's hotter than the labyrinth…"

"What happened, guys?!" a trumpy voice sounded from behind them. "We were attacked? Sparker's injured?! Show me those slimebags, I'll—"

"No-no, Monty, Zipper, it's okay!" Tammy waved telling awoken Monterey Jack and Zipper to stay in the plane. "It was an accident… Everything's under control, doctor in the house! Sleep!"

"If I only could," Monterey Jack grunted jumping down on the roof. "You made such a turmoil I thought we're in the middle of an army drill! Any news?"

"No news…" Sparky muttered, sitting up clumsily. "During my shift I noticed no incidents as usual…"

"Yeah, that's that problem," Monterey growled with displeasure. "You missed a whole dump truck coming, mind you!"

"WHERE?!" Sparky jumped up. He lurched to the side, but managed to stay upright, slowly came up to Monterey, leaned on his mighty back to be on the safe side and looked down at the parking lot. "Wow, you're right… I overlooked the dump truck somehow…"

Actually, the dump truck was overlooked not only by Sparky who had an excuse in the form of Tammy, but also the journalists encamped around the building. But it wasn't because the truck's designers used some novel stealth technologies. In this case the camouflage was much more mundane and thus much more effective, acting not on the level of senses but on the level of psychological processing of information incoming from them. In other words, the dump truck was such an ordinary and natural element of a city waking up from the night's sleep that he was honored with a few fleeting glances only. Sure, had it driven up to the main entrance, the reporters would sense some cunning plan to evacuate spotted Doctor Snow and attack it like a shoal of piranhas. Instead the truck drove onto the parking lot with a dignified thrum, and after a series of clumsy maneuvers it stopped by the very curb with its rear side facing the building.

The TV workers and rare occasional pedestrians were capable of logic thinking, so the dump truck driver's behavior raised some questions. For instance, why did he stop the truck with its rear side facing the building, making it very difficult to load garbage from dumpsters? Why did he stop it here, in the center of the parking lot, instead of driving to the north-eastern corner where the dumpsters were standing? Why did he turn off the engine which would be needed later to unload the dumpsters and compact the garbage? It was strange.

But although everybody was wondering about these questions, nobody asked them aloud. First, nobody wanted to seem sillier than the rest whose silence was considered a sign of knowing and confidence that everything was going out as it should be. Second, the principle of diffusion of responsibility in a crowd kicked in. Usually the term is used to describe the decrease of individual's responsibility in a crowd in comparison with usual circumstances, which makes the individual capable of actions he would have never allowed himself to take if he were alone. But in this particular case the other aspect of the principle worked, namely an individual's inclination to refrain from actions he would do alone under otherwise equal conditions due to orientation towards the behavior of the others around him. That's why nobody called the two men wearing red-yellow uniform vests, and when they headed confidently towards the dumpsters in the distance, everybody stopped paying any attention to them.

They made a huge mistake.

"I wonder where the garbage collectors went…" Monterey Jack said thoughtfully, moving his gaze from the empty truck to the untouched dumpsters and back. "Did you see where they went?"

Tammy and Sparky could only make helpless gestures with their hands. But then Zipper who flew higher and saw farther, buzzed loudly pointing in a different direction. Monterey ran to the corner of the roof and saw a car moving away from a sidewalk.

"They sat in there?" he asked and Zipper nodded vigorously. "But why if they got a… GOSH!" Monterey dashed to the plane, puffing like a shunting engine. "GUYS!" He shouted as loudly as he could. "TO THE PLANE! QUICKLY!"

Because of the distance Tammy and Sparky didn't understand what he was shouting about, and, as it turned out, this delay saved them if not from death then from heavy injuries. Unfortunately, in Jake Armstrong's case the delay proved fatal. On the other hand, he simply didn't have enough time to react adequately. All the employees were strictly ordered to keep the blackout, so only now, when it dawned, he was able to open the curtains, notice the truck standing six floors below him and address his colleague he shared his office with: "Strange, they've never stopped he—"

His last word remained unfinished. A timer's heartless countdown ended, eight thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate mixed with nitromethane detonated, and the building was hit by a super-powerful blast wave, its power multifold because of cumulative effect created by an optimal placing of explosives containers.

* 12 *

Stan Blather was having a strange dream. As if he is sitting in an expensive restaurant where all the waiters are blind and you have to call them using a table bell like those on the reception desks in the hotels. And he wants to make an order and hits a bell, which doesn't ring but produces a loud knock as if someone's is striking his fist against glass. A bald waiter wearing black glasses, who looks exactly like Ferrante, appears and picks up the bell from the table by touch. He rings it, making the same strange sound. The waiter becomes angry and hits the unruly device harder and harder. The sound gets louder and louder, finally becoming intolerable, and Blather stands up to take the bell away from the waiter. But Ferrante, for it is undoubtedly him, quickly jumps away and Stan falls to the floor and—

—wakes up, drenched with sweat, breathing heavily and still hearing the sound coming seemingly from everywhere while in truth it was coming from the window behind which the reporter can see—

"Lonny?" Blather asked hoarsely staring intently at the familiar cameraman's face. Seeing that Stan was awake, Kravitz smiled and waved at him. The reporter waved him back, muttered 'Leonard, be a sport and put the kettle on...' and lay back on the bed. _What a weird dream..._ he thought. Then the knocking repeated and Blather, finally realizing it was too bad to be a hallucination, jumped up and ran to the window.

"LONNY?!" he shouted completely forgetting the windows were expensive and thus soundproof. So he lifted the frame and repeated his question in the same loud voice as before, making poor Lonny almost fall from the ladder.

"Loony, what are you doing here?!"

"Standing on the ladder! Pack up and let's go! Every minute counts!"

"If you need someone to tell about death and describe destruction, you came to the right person!" Stan joked. Kravitz didn't appreciate it and frowned even more, making the reporter to go back on his words. "Okay, sorry, I can be cynical when I'm half-awake. What happened?"

"I'll tell you everything if you open the front door," the cameraman answered. "We have already beaten up the entire quarters!"

"Oh, yeah, okay..."

With a rope thrown about him, Stan ran downstairs barefooted. When he opened the door he saw That Lonny wasn't exaggerating but even extenuated the ballyhoo they created. The crowd gathered in front of his house was twice as large as yesterday and a police car was parked right behind the Channel Six' van.

"Wow…" Stan muttered as two patrol officers stepped up on his terrace.

"Good morning, Mister Blather, Maplewood police. Are you alright?" the senior policeman asked.

"Yes, yes, completely… But what is this for? I didn't call…"

"I called!" Lonny said coming running from behind the house. "Or rather, I asked your neighbor to do it. We couldn't reach you for an hour, so they sent me right here. And when you didn't answer my knocking, we got really worried! And then your neighbor started talking about some bomb—"

"Bomb?" the second police officer asked.

Blather waved his hands. "Don't pay attention! He just saw things! Yesterday's program, you know…"

"Yes. Mister Blather, we saw the show. By the way, have you received any threats associated with it?"

Stan shook his head fiercely. "No, nothing like that..! Now since you mentioned it, two FBI agents visited me yesterday, my neighbors can confirm it… Oh, and they watch my house from a blue van parked in the end of the street. Don't know if it falls under your authority, though…"

"Everything happening in Maplewood falls under our authority," the elder policeman stated calmly but confidently. "Show us!"

"Oh, sure!" Blather pointed where the blue van stood yesterday. "They are—"

But there was no van there. Neither there, not at the opposite end of the street; it was nowhere to be seen.

"Where?" the officer asked.

Blather made a helpless gesture. "It's gone. Must have left when they saw you—"

"Do you remember the license? The model?"

"GMC, one of the latest. I didn't see the license; it was too far away… My neighbor, Sol Westwood, can know! He noticed it and told me! His house is the next but one to mine… Oh, there he is, on the opposite side; that tall and grey-haired man over there!"

"Thanks, we'll talk to him immediately. Anything else? You didn't open for so long…"

"Yes, yes, officers, thank you, everything's fine! Just took some sleeping pills, been a hard day…"

"No explanations needed, Mister Blather. Have a nice day!" the officers saluted and left.

Lonny closed the door behind them and turned to his dumbfounded colleague. "Come on, Stan, move it! More life! Drink your coffee and let's go, the helicopter is waiting for us!"

"Helicopter? What helicopter? I have a day off, by the way—"

"What day off? Washington's in ruins and you talk day off?"

Stan's legs started shaking, he staggered clumsily and plopped down on his conveniently placed sofa. "In ruins? Entirely?"

"No, just partially as of yet! I'll explain everything on the way! Dress up!"

Leonard's prodding worked and Blather quickly flopped to the kitchen. "Just a minute, I need to drink some coffee. Want a cup?"

"Thanks, I've drunk a week's amount of it already," the cameraman said, going after him.

"Tell at least something about what is going on! I've slept some nine hours but I feel like waking up in a brand new world!"

Lonny hemmed sadly. "Your words are closer to real than you think. Alright, listen up…"

During his speech Blather spilled a half of coffee can off the coffeemaker and almost dropped his cup. "So that's because of Snow… Was he really inside?"

"They haven't found him yet, there's still much digging to do, so everything's possible."

"I see…" Blather thoughtfully stirred his coffee, screamed and blew on his burned finger he used instead of his spoon. "So they drove up to the building in a truck and blew it up along with half of the block? Sounds like Oklahoma '95…"

"Exactly," Leonard agreed. "No official data yet, but many experts say that the destruction profile indicates the same explosives were used, only this time in doubled amount."

"Wait a minute…" Stan froze with his cup just barely away from his mouth. "There can be a connection… What if McVeigh was associated with the Black Table? That will be huge! A good friend of mine works in Washington studio, Ray McNamara. I'll call him and make him prepare all the materials before our arrival—"

Lonny looked away. "Sadly, you can't call Ray anymore. He perished right on the spot."

If Stan's cup weren't almost empty, there certainly would be a pool of spilled coffee on the floor.

"He… he was in that building, right?"

"No, but close. Too close."

Stan gulped his coffee not minding its temperature. "How many of our people?"

"Three. And nineteen more from other channels."

The tragic news mobilized Stan. His eyes lighted up, his movements became precise and his thoughts clear.

"Give me three, no, two minutes!" he said. Casually washing his cup with a stream of water, he ran upstairs to dress up. Leonard was skeptical about it, but after exactly two minutes Stan returned fully dressed and equipped for a long trip. Say what you will, but a boiling hatred for enemies who murdered your friends and colleagues stimulates better than any amount of caffeine.

"Let's go!" Stan commanded when he made sure he didn't forget to turn anything off. He switched the house alarm system on and, uncharacteristically for him, jogtrotted towards the studio van. He sat by the driver, answered all the greetings, best wishes and condolences about deceased colleagues with a grateful wave, then half-turned around and told Kravitz who sat in the rear to tell everything once again, but this time in full detail. The report outline was already forming in his head, and he didn't even find time to cast a farewell glance over the cozy house he was leaving behind, destined to never return to it again. But he couldn't know about it, so he could be easily forgiven.

The Rescue Rangers who stayed in his house didn't know that, either. Awaken by the very first Kravitz's attempts to call through and knock through to Blather, they were aware of the latest developments and knew there was no time to waste. Chip wasn't quite happy to turn out so right about upcoming acts of terrorism, but still the news had a pleasant consequence: they were on the right track. At the same time, though, it meant that the Black Table was even more dangerous than it seemed, having its agents in the very group that worked to uncover and destroy it. Apparently, the Washington team just got another important task—

"Gosh!" Chip screamed almost scaring Gadget to death. "Monty and others… They probably were…"

Not waiting for him to finish, the mouse dashed to the garage fetching the gyrotank's remote control from her pocket as she ran. They left the closet's door open, so they needn't to tamper with the lock. Driving the vehicle down to the floor, they both jumped into the hatch. Chip switched the phone installed in the back of the cockpit on, while Gadget activated the extension mechanism of telescopic antenna which was cut right through the armor for direct contact with the hull acting as the ground and better signal quality. The antenna provided fairly good communication even when the signal was comparatively weak, which substantially lowered the phone's energy consumption by sparing it of amplifying the signal using its own resources.

"Come on, Monty, pick it up…" Chip kept repeating. In contrast to the rest of their phones, this one had its speaker off for it was installed in a space too confined for it. It was impossible to use him in the ordinary way, too, because of the electric hauler installed above the rear escape hatch. Over the years that passed since the Coo-Coo Cola case the gyrotank accumulated a mass of various equipment pieces that allowed for large-scale rescue missions. Unfortunately, his hull didn't become elastic, and at times the rear of the cockpit resembled a junk room stuffed with very useful things which, taken together, truly got in the way. That's why the phone went along with a headset scaled down to rodent size. Chip plugged one of the pieces into his ear and handed the other one to Gadget. Her closeness made the waiting much less distressing, and long beeps instead of robotic 'the number is currently unavailable' which would have been terrifying under the current circumstances instilled hope that everything was alright.

It was. The Monterey Jack's group was high enough to be out of reach of debris and glass fragments. They were also lucky not to be airborne at the time of explosion, for the hit wave would have certainly caught the Wing making it go out of control and crash. Presently the plane was simply thrown away from the building's edge getting away with only a shattered spotlight and bent landing gear. The tail stabilizer and winglets kept it from turning over, so its fastened passengers avoided injuries and received only minor concussion. Taking into account the power of the explosion, they got off very cheaply.

Still, they needed some time to regain their senses, for even the seasoned Aussie, not to mention the others, had never encountered such a tragedy face to face. The explosion didn't kill them, but some time had to pass before they could say it made them stronger. Presently they were shattered and crest-fallen, and just sat there on the edge of the roof watching the rescue operation below, and quite some time had passed before they heard the cell-phone ringing inside the Wing's hull against the surrounding wailing of sirens.

"Yes?" Monterey asked dryly coming up, or rather, shuffling up to the phone. "Oh, hello, Chipper. …No, nobody's hurt, we were on the other roof. …Yes, we saw it. …No, dump truck. …Yes, everything's ruined. …Yes, Snow was there. …No info yet, but I think he's dead. In 1983 in Beirut there were very few survivors. This building is larger, though, or rather it was… Yes, of course, as soon as possible. …Yeah, I get it. …I will. Say hello to Gadget, too. …Bye. Alright, lads!" he shouted to the others and clapped his hands. "Let's get to work! Zipper! Find the head of the humans. grab him with all your hands and don't let him go until you find out everything about Snow, the bomb type, the suspects — everything! Tammy, Sparky! The humans below need our help, so we must repair the plane fast! I saw a hardware store not too far away…"

Having received the combative task, the Washington Four began to act. Chip and Gadget, greatly relieved after talking to Monty, followed suit and immediately began searching the Blather's house. They doubted he took the materials provided by the Black Table emissaries (according to the current working hypothesis) with him to the capital, so if he kept them at home, they should still be here somewhere.

Of course Stan could have buried them under a tree in a forest which began some five hundred feet away from his house or left them in a baggage room on a nearby railway station, and in that case the Rangers were just wasting time. But still the search of the Blather's house was a more logical step than running about the forest which was vast even by human standards. Yes, the reporter's dwelling was the easiest and thus, logically, the least probable variant. Chip knew it, but from his point of view it was better to spend time working through the obvious variants than keep overlooking them and fall into the same trap as the best police detectives in Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Purloined Letter'. And, as he mentioned in conversation with Gadget on their way here, they got to start somewhere…

They decided to start with the Blather's room located on the upper floor along with three bedrooms, a dining room and a combination bathroom. The latter was located right next to the staircase, so Rescue Rangers drove the gyrotank there first. Climbing on the ceiling, they opened the cistern's lid with the plunger hauler, and Chip descended to look under the lid, but one of the amateurish hiding places was empty. Then the couple checked under the bathroom for conscience's sake finding nothing but dust, then left the gyrotank by the stairs and went searching for the reporter's cabinet following the rules of labyrinth traversal and hugging the left wall.

In theory, a room in the north wing, right above the garage, could be the Stan's cabinet. There were several bookcases and a dedicated computer table holding the most advanced hardware. But the heroes' experience and instinct told them that the respectable head of the family would have hardly filled the bookcases with comic books, and would have rarely used the steering wheel as the computer's input device. Deducing that the room belonged to the Blather's son, the only one according to the family photos on the corridor walls, the Rescue Rangers still looked through all the boxes checking whether the disks' markings matched their boxes. They found no secret information hidden among the games, so they marked the room as having some potential and went to the opposite, south-western part of the house. Chip surmised that the parents' room should be located there, for the young and rebellious Blather junior whose room was densely covered with posters of alternative rock musicians would surely try to put as many walls between him and his ancestors as he only could.

His hunch proved correct. Blather's cabinet was a relatively small room adjacent to his and his wife's bedroom. The computer here was even visually weaker by an order than his son's machine, but the white 'tome' of external hard drive brought them hopes as high as a terabyte by Gadget's estimations.

"How much can we carry away?" Chip asked.

"We have two flash drives 128 gigabytes each. I think it will be enough. If not, we can upload some data to the file sharing service. They have a cable internet here, it shouldn't take much time."

Chip nodded. Foxglove found very good internet storage with a large quota for free accounts which made their lives much easier. As time went by, it was getting harder and harder to overprize the role the chiropterous beauty played in the team. She deserved the monument for removing Dale from between him and Gadget alone, and her wings and sonar saved the day more often than Monty had his cheese attacks. As the abilities Winifred had seen in her awakened, she became a mediator of sorts between the Rescue Rangers and the beyond, which greatly helped the team during the MAP case and helped solve several totally unbelievable cases involving black magic and evil spirits.

But Foxglove's main specialization was computers. The computers she, having been born in the wilderness and brought up in the occult atmosphere, had never seen until joining the Rescue Rangers. Despite this, she quickly familiarized herself with complex hardware, and while in the beginning it manifested in her helping Dale in his struggle against unmanageable video games, either by their slight tweaking or by hacking and editing of savegame files, after Gadget's disappearance a volcano of knowledge and skill seemed to wake up inside her. She easily bypassed all security systems and cracked the strongest passwords on the fly, digging up the most classified data concerning Nimnul and the whereabouts of materials exempted from his lab. Her cooperation with Sparky, another experienced specialist in the field, supplanted her intuition with theory allowing her to achieve some truly extraordinary results. She was far from her own scientific developments and doctoral degrees, but she was unmatched among the Rescue Rangers as a practitioner. This combination of predisposition to magic and technology at the same time could seem contradicting the nature of things, but, as Dale, the avid fan of Shadowrun series, put it, 'there's nothing strange, for Foxy's technoshaman!' Not a great explanation, but even Chip had to admit that it didn't contradict any known facts.

"I hope we won't have to call Foxglove here," the chipmunk said climbing on the desk and lowering the rope to Gadget so that it passed not too far from the PC's power button. The desk wasn't large, and the system unit was located under it in a special enclosed compartment. His son's PC's system unit was located on the table with its lid removed, clearly showing who was the hardware and novel technologies guru in the family. Now it remained to be seen if Stan Blather was really such a dummy in PC maintenance as he seemed.

"Me too," Gadget said. Swinging on the rope, she pressed the power button with her legs, and the computer responded with the humming of its fans. "If need be, we can her and ask her advice."

"If they are at the phone," Chip noted helping her to climb over the desk's edge.

"Not necessarily," the inventor objected reasonably, slapping her husband's backpack communication set called Bluetooth hands-free in Human. — "They can be thirty three feet away from it. We all have first class communicators. That is, not we but our phones, but since we have our phones, there is a transitive closure…"

"I'd prefer opening it first," the chipmunk interrupted her. "Have you see any USB sockets on the front panel?"

"He has them on the desk."

Bewildered, Chip looked beneath him. Gadget giggled, embraced his face with her paws and turned it left where there was a golden extender which removed the need to get under the desk every time you wanted to use a flash drive.

"Convenient."

"Darn convenient!" the mouse agreed taking the gyrotank remote control off her back. It was much larger than the tiny two-button device with a wire antenna she had used previously. This device was built into an MP3-player case and had the same set of buttons as the gyrotank's console and a QVGA-display showing feed from web-camera installed under the spherical armor bulge on the roof. Just like with the phones, the signal was transmitted via Bluetooth protocol and had a range up to 100 meters fully covering the reporter's house and a part of the surrounding lawn.

Leaving Gadget biting her lip in concentration while driving the gyrotank from the stairs to the cabinet, Chip studied the surroundings looking for a paper with a password. Finding none on the wall, under the mouse mat and under the keyboard, he went through the most popular passwords in his mind. Foxglove compiled a long list of those from the data of various antivirus and antihacking sites. He remembered the Top-20 by heart, but after that his memory started having lapses. _I need to refresh it…_ Chip promised himself. It wasn't critical now since they had the five paper sheets with them in the gyrotank's jockey box, but who knows where they would need it the next time…

This time, however, they didn't need to turn to the collective wisdom of the internet. The operating system loaded on its own without even asking to choose a user account or enter a password.

"My home is my castle," Chip chuckled. Then he made a few clicks to check his hypothesis and chuckled even louder. "He's working as administrator by default!"

"Foxy would kill him," Gadget observed, and it wasn't that big of an exaggeration. While Monterey Jack used to ask her under various pretexts whether she forgot to install brakes or safety belts into her new invention, Foxglove didn't let her leave the computer until she removed all her traces in the system. Of course, the mouse realized how important these routine actions were, and soon performed them without being reminded to, but still the whole thing left a terrible taste in her mouth.

"Could be," Chip agreed. He too had his share of threshing by Foxglove who knew too well about the consequences of even microscopic digression from the rules of security and thus became a little paranoid on the subject. All the Rescue Rangers suffered from it, especially Dale who had never been an exemplar of self-discipline. But know they could be sure that if the villains invaded the HQ they would have to try hard to gain access to their system, and even if they do, they would be able to do only a small share of what the Blather's computer was about to experience.

"Found anything?" Gadget asked driving the gyrotank onto the wall and stopping it on the desk surface level.

"Yes, lots of stuff," the chipmunk responded. He started with My Documents folder and hit the spot. Being a pious user, Blather stored all his work there. "But the most recent files here are three weeks old!"

"So either he changed the date before saving or—"

"…Or three weeks ago he started working on the yesterday's show, and put the results—" Chip kicked the mouse to put the cursor onto the external drive icon. "Here!"

He clicked twice expecting the system to prompt for password at least here, but the volume opened without any delays. Just as Gadget predicted, it capacity had a capacity of a whole terabyte with no more than ten percent of it used. The only data were family photos and Stan's children birthdays, though.

"What do you make of it?" Gadget asked.

"Either he hid the files from the operating system somehow, or he integrated them into videos and photos using steganography, or he uploaded them to his son's computer, or he hid the disk in the house somewhere or even buried it nearby. In the former two cases we'll need Foxglove, in the latter — Mole. So I propose to start with the second computer. Come on!"

"Wait!" Gadget grabbed her husband stepping towards the armored vehicle by his collar. "I've got an idea. What does he use to access internet?"

"I saw Internet Explorer only."

"Well, that makes things easier!" the mouse launched the browser and opened the list of the latest visited pages. "Well, he clearly heard nothing about clearing the cache… Let's see… A search portal… Mail… WBC site… Wikipedia… Aha! Here it is! Click here!"

Chip obediently clicked on the designated list element and they saw the main page of another popular file exchange service. Its free package was unjustifiably poor, but those who decided to pay a fairly large sum were limited by their imagination only. They received access to enormous disk space, absence of limitations on speed and size of the data transferred, a secure protocol, and 256-bit encryption of the most valuable data according to the public key scheme based on the user's password. Its reliability was being evaluated right in the process of registration, so no simple or popular passwords could be used. Gadget turned to Chip.

"No," he answered before the question was asked. "I couldn't find the paper with the password. Looks like we'll have to call a friend."

"Maybe, but not necessarily! Open the browser settings! No go to Contents tab, find Autofill section and Parameters button… Aha!" Gadget smiled triumphantly and pointed at the checked box in front of 'Remember usernames and passwords in forms' option. "See? Login and password must have been saved in the operating system registry!"

"If they had, we would have logged in already. But instead…" Chip pointed at the empty user authentication fields. "Looks like this time Blather was smarter and didn't let the browser to remember the password."

"It means nothing, it's still there. Encrypted, surely, but that's not a problem, I have—"

"Wait!" Chip interrupted her. "Why would it be there if Blather told the browser not to save them?"

"No, he told the browser not to fill these fields with the chosen login and password when the page is opened. But in order to achieve this, the browser must know what login and password not to use to fill the fields on the particular page. So it remembers the combination of login, password and the page address so that when the next time this page is opened these login and password would not be inserted into these fields! Clever, huh?"

"Very," Chip rolled his eyes. "Although I expected nothing less from that company."

"No, it's not that bad, actually. All the data are reliably encrypted by a very strong algorithm which uses a hash-function of the page address associated with these login and password. If you don't know it, you can never guess the password!"

Chip looked at the screen. "But we know it, right?"

"Too right!" Gadget was beaming with passion. "I'll bring the flash drive with the needed utilities and we'll get to work, so don't get distracted!"

"I'm the embodiment of concentration!" Chip furrowed his brow hard proving he wasn't joking. "You are unrivaled as usual!"

"Actually, I learnt it all from Foxy, so—"

"Don't worry! You'll outmatch her very soon!"

"Well…" Gadget shivered and waved her hands. "I… I'll be back… I'll be back!"

Turning 180 degrees around, she ran towards the gyrotank and returned soon dragging a USB flash drive. This old-timer's worn casing held only two gigabytes, but it was more precious than a gold ingot of the same size. It contained a collection of hacking tools plucked out from the darkest and the most dangerous corners of the World Wide Web. After visiting those resources the hard drive had to be reformatted and the system reinstalled in order to get rid reliably of 'gifts' like Trojan programs and rootkits, but the 'prize' was worth it. In theory the owner of this gentleman's kit could crack open any computer with the USB socket, but some programs were too non-trivial to use. Their authors wrote them mainly for themselves without paying too much attention to such trifles as a user-friendly interface or documentation, and thus Foxglove was needed to make many of them work.

But such potent substances weren't required here, for Blather's computer resembled a wide open and blown-through barn. A commercial tool for recovery of forgotten password was enough. If Rescue Rangers were humans, they would certainly buy it, but since they weren't, they had to hack it to use all its functions, including recovering of passwords of any length. This tool wasn't a hacking program in a usual sense of the word for it required a user-provided access to the registry and the manually typed address of the web-page you needed to recover password for. Chip and Gadget had it all, and after a few seconds they were happy owners of the password for Blather's remote file storage and all the data it contained: a single 99 kilobytes long file .

"Great! And what does it mean?" Chip tilted his head studying a string of almost hundred completely random symbols.

"Good question," Gadget squinted her eyes. "Looks like some access code. But for what?"

"Acute observation, hands down. And given the filename, it's even correct. But what is it for?"

"For some account on some site most probably. Or to a mailbox…"

"I doubt it," Chip objected. "These things are usually called passwords, not keys, and since Blather is clearly an amateur, he would have probably named the file to avoid confusion. We don't need passwords, we need keys! Where is this word used?"

"Well, the keys are used to register software products…"

"Interesting, but futureless. What else?"

"What else? Well… For instance… Erhm…"

"So?" Chip hurried her.

"Well, for example…"

"For example, so?"

"Well, let's take… No, wait, that's not it… Or is it…"

"What?"

"No, nothing… How about some wikipeding?"

Chip, already feeling being a detective, drooped instantly. But the mission was more important than his feelings, and he soothed himself by the fact that even Sureluck Jones could do very little without his archive.

Wikipedia didn't help much, though. The variants of usage of the word 'key' it proposed encompassed a wide range of fields of human life and creativity, but none of them provided a clear indication of what Blather had meant. Although Chip's heart skipped a bit while reading an article on hash tables, they were so widely used it was hard to point out anything specific.

"We need to go another way," he said when scientific terms ended and comic book characters started. "Let's see what programs he installed here. Maybe we can find where this key is used."

"Let's try it!" Gadget went to Programs menu and threw her hands up. "Golly! It's a real junk heap! No sorting at all! Foxy would…"

"I know, sweetheart," Chip stopped her seeing a fate's gift in it. "The shortcuts appear here as the programs are installed, right? Scroll to the bottom. I want to see what he installed last."

"Okay, just a sec— WOW! Freenet client!"

"Freenet?" Chip asked. "Isn't it where WikiLeaks is hosted?"

"It is!" The mouse confirmed. "Decentralized censor-proof open-source data storage that guarantees users' anonymity and data security! I think Foxy even wrote something for them…"

"Yes, right!" Chip remembered it, too. "She said she searches for everything there first, and only then on torrents and in other places, it's more secure this way… So Blather uploaded his materials there! And this key—"

"—is used to access them!" Gadget finished, already typing the address of the project's home page into the browser's address line. In five minutes the heroes knew that the strange sequence of letters, digits and punctuation marks is a so-called content hash-key used to identify Freenet-hosted resources. Using the instruction provided on the page, the couple of Rescue Rangers started the download of the needed file and waited. It was a long wait, because in Freenet files weren't downloaded but rather assembled from a number of pieces scattered about the net nodes. The rodents, used to cable internet speed, felt as though they returned to the age of commutated connections when you had to pray for every kilobyte. In this case, however, they had to pray for every thirty two kilobytes — the size of separate fragments which could easily be stored on some switched off or even broken computer. Apparently, on this stage Freenet consisted of enthusiasts who never disconnected from the network, so the archive was assembled successfully, and the DVD image it contained was successfully read by virtual optical drive.

"Bingo!" Chip exclaimed encircling the file and the additional text document . Short and on topic, genuine Sparky's style who did his best to leave not a single chance to his amnesia.

"Looks like everything's here!" Gadget shared his enthusiasm looking through the list of files and folders. "Interviews, recordings, scenario drafts… Full set!"

"Perfect! I'll go get the flash drives, then!" Chip announced and went after 128 GB drives. Dale called them 'torpedoes' for their cylindrical shape and sail ships etched on them. The name stuck, but Chip decided not to mention it in order not to rub his and his wife's wounds.

"Copy everything? Including our files?" Gadget asked when he returned, rolling the drives before him.

"Our files have the first priority. We must check whether they were modified before given to Blather. Do you remember their contents?"

"Only partially. Sparky and Foxglove wrote the test."

"Well, let's hope Foxy has no memory problems… Oh, and make the backup copies!"

Having copied all the data and making sure that Stan's computer had nothing interesting left on it, Rescue Rangers turned it off and returned to the gyrotank.

"Now we can search the second computer!" Gadget announced when they loaded both drives into the vehicle.

Chip shook his head. "I don't think it's really needed. We'll only waste time. Let's examine the rooms we haven't visited yet. There should be an attic here."

There was an attic, but the entrance to it was barred by a heavy flap door.

"Looks like wooden," Gadget said, knocking at it. "I had some saws somewhere here…"

"No, it's too obvious trace. We'll try to get there via an outer wall. Drive us downstairs, let's look for a cellar."

Gadget nodded and descended the tank on the floor. The floor layout didn't allow to accelerate much, so she didn't transform the vehicle into skatemobile mode, and they moved forward, buzzing with electric engine and slurping with plungers. It wasn't easy to navigate the staircase in this mode, though, but the Rescue Rangers got out of the spot by driving along the wall. Unfortunately, it wasn't the hardest problem they encountered. The cellar entrance was located outside, too, and the house turned out harder to leave than it seemed.

"Too bad they don't have a dog," Chip said when they stopped before the locked door.

"We wouldn't squeeze through the hole. We are too wide."

"How about opening a window?"

"That's hardly a good idea," Gadget pointed at the wall-mounted security terminal blinking with red lights.

"Can you hack it?"

"In theory, given enough time…"

"Don't worry! Blather's in Washington, his family is away, so nobody should come here for quite some time—"

No sooner than Chip said the magic word, totally unexpected sounds came from inside the house. There was a backdoor near the stairs, and it was being opened. With a key.

"But who's—" Gadget was about to ask.

"Quickly! Hide!" Chip cut her short.

"Oh, right!" The mouse remembered now. Turning the gyrotank around its axis, she switched into reverse gear and drove under the table in the center of the living room. As soon as they hid, the steps could be heard from the corridor. Getting out, the Rescue Rangers ran up to the table leg and saw two men, absolutely unremarkable not counting them being in someone else's house in the absence of its owners. One man went upstairs while the other one crossed the living room quickly heading towards the security console. But instead of hacking it with some elaborate device, he simply entered a ten-digit code, and all the indicators switched off.

"Wow!" Chip whistled. "They know the code! How can it be?"

"Who knows. Spied it, probably."

"Yes, but—" Chip stopped short, his eyes illuminated with realization. "The van Blather spoke of!"

The mouse gasped. "So it wasn't FBI but the robbers!"

"On the contrary! Look what he's doing!" Chip pointed at the stranger who, having dealt with the console, went to a phone on a small table. Unplugging it, he turned the device upside down and unzipped his coat. A narrow mirror above the table reflected inner pockets filled with various tools and a pistol handle sticking from under his belt.

"They are installing bugs!" Gadget realized.

"Well, that was to be expected," Chip said. "After yesterday's show I would be very surprised if—"

He froze with his mouth agape, unable to believe his own eyes. The man unscrewed the phone, but inserted nothing into it. Instead he removed some tiny chip from it, screwed the bottom panel back, checked the phone was working and went to the floor lamp beside the sofa.

"Have you seen it?!" Chip asked instinctively lowering his voice to a whisper, although the man couldn't hear them from this distance.

"I have," Gadget was whispering, too. "They aren't installing bugs, they are… Golly…"

"They are removing them," the Rescue Rangers leader said grimly watching the man taking out a button-sized device from the lamp's socket. "Now it's clear how they know the code. Blather was under surveillance the entire time. But if so, then… Yeah, it fits…" Chip turned to his wife and, smiling crookedly, pointed at her, then at the man, as if introducing them. "Gadget, meet the Black Table. Black Table, meet Gadget."

"So here you are," Gadget intently studied the terrorist's face, instinctively, as she learned in laboratory, remembering every tiny detail of his image. "Too bad I don't have my camera with me. Police would really like to have his photo."

Chip perked up as if awaken from delusion. "Right! But if we can't bring them to the police, we can call the police here!"

"And how will we do it? They turned the alarm off, even breaking a window won't help!"

"We'll call them!" Chip pointed at the phone.

"But they won't understand us!"

"We won't need to say anything. We'll just take the receiver off the hook and dial 9-1-1. They will determine the number and address and send the patrol to find out what's going on! They always do that!"

"Chip, you're genius!" Gadget touched his furry neck with her lips. Chip's jokes, encouragements and tenderness displays slowly chipped off the heaviness off her heart, and she couldn't help but do it now. And she immediately grew ashamed of it, for she still thought she couldn't be forgiven after yesterday's night. Then she realized that her restraint didn't help her but gave her away, so she smiled as widely as she could. But then she thought that such radical swings of emotions made her as easy to read as an open book printed in large font, and she decided to behave more reservedly…

It was hard to tell how long she would go in circles, but then Chip kissed her nose and winked happily. "No, I just know how the things work! He's leaving! Let's go!"

As soon as the bandit finished 'cleaning' the room and left, the Rangers ran to the table. It was too high to jump on it right away, so they climbed via the phone cable. Moving the phone receiver so that it released the hook but remained on the phone for the sake of appearance, they pressed the button of emergency call.

"Great!" Chip summarized when a muffled dial tone came from under the receiver. "This is a large house, and if they have two or three bugs per room, they will stay here for at least twenty minutes. We'll see how they explain their presence here to the police!"

Gadget was about to say something equally cheerful and optimistic, but then the terrorist who had went upstairs looked into the room. "Where are you, Brad? I've cleaned up the PC, so—" He stopped short and froze in the doorway, his face distorted with surprise and disbelief as he stared at the two rodents who stayed by the phone.

"Maybe he'll think that we're just some vermin…" Chip contemplated, although it would be foolish to count on that after their friends' adventure in the supermarket. But the reality exceeded their worst fears.

"BRAD! THEY'RE HERE! FIRST CHIPMUNK AND HIS GIRLFRIEND!" the terrorist shouted about the house, then whipped up his pistol with a silencer from under his belt and started shooting to kill.

* 13 *

Usually crowded business district in north-western part of Washington currently resembled an ant hill with a boulder fallen in its centre. Its outer regions, reaching as far as Rhode Island Avenue North-West and Florida Avenue North-West were comparatively serene, but closer to the centre the realm of chaos began. Shouting people running about, the machinery thundering, dust and exhausts making it hard to breathe. Then glass fragments start cracking under your feet, leading you, like white pebbles led Hansel and Gretel, to a multilevel concrete structure which would surely make connoisseurs of avant-garde sculpture happy were it not a scene of a horrible crime.

The explosion caused a third of the NCS-owned office complex to collapse, and from above a wide breach narrowing towards the centre made it looked like a tooth torn out along with its roots. The blast wave went through entire building and broke all the windows, turning the glass-paneled cube into a giant grenade with damage radius of thousands of feet, its fragments covering everything around the building and riddling the surrounding buildings. Later it would be determined that the shattered glass from this and 282 nearby buildings accounted for 7% of total number of dead and 65% of injured among those outside of the destroyed NCS base, including most of the media people, only five lucky ones of whom survived because they happened to be in the cafe down the street when the bomb exploded.

Fortunately, nearby offices and shops were empty in this morning hour, otherwise there would have been much more casualties. Still the explosion shocked entire Washington, and not just because it was equal to an earthquake measuring 3,2 on the Richter scale. State of emergency was declared in the capital just twenty minutes after the act of terrorism, and all the resources of the District of Columbia were involved in clearing the debris and assisting the injured. Each fallen journalist was replaced with twenty others, and from that point on all news agencies in the world began their news bulletins with reports from Washington, every time presenting more and more convincing proofs that the war on terrorism lasting for several years now was far from over.

At the moment there were 116 confirmed dead and 552 injured but everybody knew these numbers weren't final at all. So every word of a new portion of bodies recovered from under the ruins was like dry timber thrown into a fire, rekindling discussions of whether this terrorist attack would surpass the Oklahoma City federal building bombing and whether they would find body of Doctor Archibald Joseph Snow who was unanimously considered the terrorists' primary target. Opinions divided, but one thing was undisputed: after such a powerful boost the fire ignited by Stan Blather's Special Investigation would keep burning for a very long time...

In contrast to heroes and antiheroes of the yesterday's show, the name of the man who barely managed to squeeze his car onto an improvised parking lot in front of the police barrier was known to a very narrow circle. In Washington it meant you either belonged to a lower society stratum or to a circle of power, and one glance on his black Mercury Marauder and his tailored suit was enough to reject the first option. That's why the police officer stationed by the barrier spoke to him in a more polite tone than he did to other gapers. "I'm sorry, sir, but this area is off-limits."

The man silently took a small leathery ID case out of his inner pocket. "Special Agent Trevor Branson, Secret Service", he introduced himself presenting his credentials. The officer looked at a golden five-point star in the centre of the badge, then at the photo. Black-skinned face with heavy features, wide lips, thin moustache, a hump on the nose tip, close haircut and grey temples mismatching jet-black brows. He looked younger and dapper on the screen, but so much time has passed...

"It was you on that stage then, right?" the officer asked giving the ID back.

"Yes," Trevor Branson answered shortly putting the ID away. "Can you tell me where the HQ is?"

"Go straight ahead, sir, without turning anywhere. A large black trailer, you won't miss it."

"Thank you, officer," Branson went between the barriers and strode along what was previously a roadway of T-street North-West and now looked like an urban warfare arena. Shattered windows, dented walls, helicopters' rumbling. More like Gaza than Washington.

A multi-wheeled trailer of the rescue operation field headquarters was indeed hard to miss. A black parallelepiped as large as a railroad car with several parabolic antennae on its roof sharply contrasted with the cars destroyed by explosion, burnt carcasses of which covered the parking lot in front of the building. Here the security measures were stricter than on the outer perimeter, and Trevor had to show his ID twice before he was allowed into a kingdom of operators' rapid speech, paper rustling and conditioned air ruled by FBI Special Agent Walter Coolidge, the head of the investigation.

"Well, look who showed up!" Coolidge smiled with sickly sweetness as he rose from behind his corner desk and extending his hand prickly with dust to Branson with a short delay. "And I wondered whom they will send here. There is turmoil up there, huh?"

"You don't say," Trevor answered with a wide smile. He let the federal agent's hand to hang in the air for two seconds and shook it demonstrating he can play the power and subordination game, too. "Any results?" he asked in a completely business tone.

Now that pleasantries were over, Coolidge grew serious and narrowed his eyes. "What exactly are you interested in?"

"Everything, of course. But mainly who did it, how they did it and whether Doctor Archibald Snow was at the building."

The head of investigation nodded, his expression saying 'I knew it.'

"Nobody had taken responsibility as of now. The damage pattern and the results of preliminary chemical analysis suggest that a mixture of nitromethane with ammonium nitrate as an oxidizer was used."

"Just like in Oklahoma City," Branson recalled immediately. "Interesting. And what about the third item?"

"We're working," Coolidge answered evasively.

"But he was there?"

"We don't know it for sure."

"And who does know for sure?"

The head of investigation skewed his eyes to the right. Branson looked there and understood everything without any words. There was a man sitting behind the same desk as Coolidge in the opposite end of the trailer. Already starting to grow bald, he wore a strict black suit and an aura of Central Intelligence Agency that could be felt from a mile away.

"And who is that man over there?" Trevor asked, his voice deliberately loud.

The stranger, who was watching them all this time, clearly expected this question. He rose calmly and came up to them. "Robert Cunningham, Collection Management Officer, National Clandestine Service," he introduced himself. Behind this unsightly rank there was not some office theorist but the man responsible for maintaining connection between the US policy makers and the field agents who must always know what information and in what amounts was required. He looked being of roughly the same age as Branson, and his rank in his organization was obviously similar and thus fairly high.

"Trevor Branson, Deputy Assistant Director of Presidential Protective Division, Secret Service," the African American introduced himself back. "So this is your building."

"It was," Cunningham confirmed.

"And was Doctor Archibald Snow inside it?"

"It's confidential information."

Trevor hemmed. "In other words, he was."

"That's your opinion."

Branson grinned widely. "But you didn't say 'no'."

"I didn't say 'yes' either," the NCS agent countered in unemotional voice.

"Come on, Mister Cunningham! Many members of my family and my good friends and acquaintances worked or are working for the government, and as you can see, I followed suit, too, and I know well that nobody ever says anything different in such cases. But I want to remind you that I'm not some pesky journalist or a leisured layman sticking his nose into someone else's business, but—"

"Exactly, Mister Branson. It's our business."

"It is," Trevor agreed. "It's yours because you owned the building and the killed people worked for your organization. It's also Mister Coolidge's business, for it is FBI's job to investigate federal crimes including acts of terrorism. But it's also our business," Branson pointed at himself. "Because, first, we are less than two miles away from the White House, and second, the person connected with the attempt to assassinate the President is involved, and it's our domain, as you surely know."

"I don't think so. You see, I'm accountable directly to the Director of the CIA, and—"

"And I am accountable directly to the President. So what will it be? Are we gonna hog the blanket, or will we join our efforts and find these bastards?"

The intelligence officer narrowed his eyes. "And what will I get in return?"

"Sorry," Branson made a helpless gesture, "I've just arrived here so I can't tell you anything new. But I can say what you won't get: a reprimand to be placed in your personal file for obstructing the investigation personally authorized and overseen by the President of the United States. How about that?"

The NCS officer pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked at his opponent from under the brows. Branson's face gave up no emotions, like any good gambler's, but Cunningham could feel he didn't exaggerate much when he spoke of the President's involvement.

"At least, that's honest," he finally said and shook Branson's hand. "Well, I'm looking forward to cooperate with you."

"Same here," Branson nodded, and all three of them went to Cunningham's workplace. "So what about Snow?" The President's man repeated his question.

"He was inside."

"Is he dead?"

"We haven't found the body yet."

"Don't you think the explosion could be a cover-up for his escape?"

"We thought about it. But camera recordings show he was in his room when the bomb exploded."

"Camera recordings?" Branson was surprised. "They remained intact?"

"Copies are on the backup server in our building in the neighboring block," Cunningham explained. "I won't tell which one," he warned.

Branson grinned again. "Sure thing! That's where you keep Ferrante?"

"No."

Trevor stopped, suddenly having an idea. "Ferrante was in that building, too, right?"

"No," Cunningham repeated.

"Robert, we had an agreement..."

"Honestly, no!" the intelligence officer's voice became brisk. "And mind the distance!"

"Alright, I'm sorry," Branson backed off. "Just wanted to iron out the wrinkles. I'm glad Ferrante wasn't here."

"He means so much to you?" Coolidge wondered. "Oh, yes, you've worked together..."

"And arrested him," the NCS officer added.

"Both him and Snow," Trevor sighed. "Too bad MacMillan got away..."

Cunningham hemmed. "But not too far away."

"What do you mean by that?" Branson asked. He didn't like the NCS man's tone very much.

"That there is a version, or rather a supposition, that you caught up to him. In the hospital."

"You imply that I killed him?"

"Not necessarily you personally, but... And, you know, this whole story with an email message smells badly..."

Trevor screwed up his eyes, causing regions around them to become darker than usual. He would have given up much to find out where that letter came from, too, but the NCS officer's pretensions had to be nipped in the bud. "Officer Cunningham, if you have any solid acts you know where to go with them. Otherwise keep your insinuations to yourself, and I won't say aloud my personal opinion about some dark pages of your Service's and the whole Agency's history. Agreed?"

Cunningham said nothing, just looked aslant at him. But silence implies you know what, so the President's emissary continued impassively. "Do you have a list of people who were in the building?"

"Sure," the intelligence officer picked up a top folder from the table. "Those found and identified are marked with crosses."

"How many survivors?"

"Less than I'd like. I hope we'll find more under the ruins. But we have found only bodies up to now."

Branson nodded and delved into the list. There were too many crosses, indeed. Adahms, John, 24 years old. Allison, Michael, 32. Armstrong, Jacob, 29… There were nobody older than 35 on the first page. All young, full of hopes and plans for their lives…

"And these are the first suspects, I presume?" he asked pointing at three names with question marks opposite them.

"Something like that," Cunningham nodded. "Of course, all of them passed severe background checks before being appointed to this division, but there's always a place for suspicion in our business, you know."

"I do," Branson confirmed. "I see you don't consider these phone calls to TV stations accidental."

"No. Moreover, I know they weren't."

"How?"

"We questioned the studio employees who answered these calls. Every time he said the same things, reacted to disbelief in the same way, lamented the phone was picked by some mere clerk and not by a famous journalist from this channel who would certainly believe him for he 'knows where the truth is'. Every time the same scheme and the same threats to call a competitor station. Even the last time, when he told the employee of Channel 32 to call Channel Four where he called the first time."

"Were the calls traced?"

"He called through Skype from account created just yesterday. We're trying to trace the account used to pay for the calls and faxes… You know, Mister Branson, the more we speak, the more you look like a shirker coming when everything is done and giving nothing in return!"

"Is everything done?" Trevor asked, not perturbed by a sudden harshness at all. He was used to withstand much heavier blows.

"No, it's just—" Cunningham's cavalry rush failed, but his boiling annoyance needed a vent, so he pounced at those who were far away and unable to answer him. "Just imagine how hard it is to work with those reporters! Squirrely, slippery, threaten with lawsuits if you press even slightly! Lawsuits! We must sue them all ourselves, all at once! And that Blather guy in the first place! If it weren't for him and his darned show… Though I'm glad they called them all here and..."

"Stop it, Robert," Coolidge asked, or maybe ordered, and this Cunningham had no objections about being called by his name. Maybe decided against arguing with the trailer master and the formal head of investigation, or just didn't notice it. In any case, he fell silent and began to shuffle through his folders mindlessly, and Branson resumed reading. He cringed at the NCS agent's words, but had to admit his rage was justified. After all, twenty two journalists were killed, while, according to the list, there were two hundred sixty seven people in the destroyed building, the youngest of whom was 22, and the eldest was 50…

"No..." Branson muttered. "It can't be..."

But it was. Two adjacent names. Jackson, Leroy M., 50. Jackson, Samuel P., 24.

"Someone familiar?" the federal agent asked noticing Branson's agitation.

"Much more than that..." Trevor turned to Cunningham. "These two, are they… These crosses, it means..."

"Yes," Cunningham answered shortly. "Elder and junior Jacksons. Leroy was a head of this division, and Samuel was his trainee. He was Leroy's nephew."

"I know," Branson put the folder back on table. "I know… Was the family informed already?"

"Not yet."

"Then I'll do it, if you don't mind."

"Sure," for the first time some humane notes appeared in Cunningham's voice. "My condolences."

"Thanks. Can I take the copy of the list with question marks? We'll run them against our base."

"Sure, take it. Take this one, here. I've got plenty of them," the NCS officer handed Branson the folder he had read. The Special Agent's question didn't come as a surprise. United States Secret Service had several divisions, one of which investigated frauds involving so-called identity thefts. The scrutinized check of biography and other information about applicants practically eliminated chances of someone who wasn't the person he or she pretended to be to infiltrate the NCS, but, as he himself had rightfully noted, there was always a place for suspicion…

"Well, gentlemen, it was nice to meet you," Branson started to bid farewell. "Too bad we're meeting under these circumstances, but it can't be helped. Keep us in touch, and we'll help you however we can from our side— Walter, there's a fly on your collar!"

"Where?" Coolidge slapped his shoulder instinctively, but a loud receding buzzing indicated his hit missed the target. He turned around quickly and noticed an emerald spot quickly flying away. "Such a pestersome one! I've been fighting it off for half of a day already! Greenish, must be a bluebottle. It senses the dead, darn it! And I thought it wasn't a season..."

"It's always a season for those," Cunningham joked gloomily.

"Yeah," Branson agreed and exited the trailer. Descending to the ground, he stopped and looked at the destroyed building's skeleton.

Jackson, Leroy M., 50. Jackson, Samuel P., 24. Born almost thirty years apart, but died on the same time, maybe even simultaneously…

_Rest in peace..._ Branson wished them and looked left where the police barrier barely held the journalists at bay. _Don't know about the flies, but for those it's always a season, indeed…_

With the folder under his arm, he turned around and went to his car. He needed to get the lists to the office and report the President about the investigation progress. But first he had to make a very painful phone call.

* 14 *

The first three bullets hit the phone and the plastic pieces flying about the room just barely missed Chip and Gadget who dashed in opposite directions. They quickly disappeared from view, but the terrorist continued to pour the lead out until his clip was empty.

"PETEY, WHAT'S GOING ON?!" the second terrorist shouted from the corridor. In contrast to a common Hollywood misconception, silencers make the sound of gunshot quieter by forty decibels at most, for no barrel attachment can suppress the rattle of the weapon's moving parts, not to mention the sound of a bullet hitting an obstacle. It's enough to make it blend in with a street noise and make random pedestrians think it was anything but a gunshot. But in a quiet and, more importantly, enclosed space it's heard very clearly, and it became as noisy in the living room of the Blathers' house as on some rock-party. So while Bread didn't quite make out what exactly his partner shouted, he couldn't miss the started cannonade and a second later he ran into the room with the similar silenced pistol ready.

"The Mouse Assassin and the First Chipmunk! They're here!" Pete answered quickly taking another clip out.

"Are you mad?!"

"I saw them with my own eyes!"

"I told you not to watch the news before bed." Brad lowered his gun.

"You'd better watch out, we can't let them go… THERE HE IS!"

It was Chip. He sat through the first shooting spree behind the clothes hanger but, knowing that the wooden furniture wouldn't save him from bullets, decided to seize the opportunity to cross the open space while one of the guns was empty and the other one had its barrel directed downwards. Pete hastily inserted the clip and racked the slide, and even fired twice, but Chip had already hidden behind the sofa, so the bullets just made two useless holes in the floor.

Brad didn't have time to fire, but he saw the chipmunk with a distinctive unusually short tail and became instantly convinced that the situation was very serious. Without a word he raised his pistol and started slowly moving around the sofa.

"Better late than never," Pete said between his teeth approaching from the opposite side.

"You say the mouse is here, too?" his partner asked paying no attention to his critique. "Are you sure it's her?"

"Sure, who else? Chemist gave a detailed description of her. Erect-walking, blond-haired… It's surely her!"

"Well, if you say so—" Brad froze noticing some movement by the sofa leg. Without changing his pose or making any abrupt movements, he peered there and discerned a dark clot, too large and too dark to be a gob of dust. The criminal smiled and slowly aimed his gun at it…

"WHAT THE HECK?!" he shouted suddenly and, without firing a shot, turned towards a hair-dryer wail from behind. He barely caught a glimpse of a grey ball flying from under a coffee table. Then the unidentified object hit his shank with a force and speed of a professional football player's leg, and Brad fell to the floor with a loud scream, his head barely missing the tabletop corner. It took him three seconds to recover, and it was enough for the Rescue Rangers. Rolling from under the sofa, Chip grabbed the gyroframe and knocked against the hull. Gadget accelerated immediately, directing the gyrotank right at the second terrorist. But Pete turned out defter than his colleague and jumped aside, then fired half of his clip at the unfathomable vehicle. His bullets, slowed by the silencer, couldn't pierce the hull, but they bent the frame, chipped a piece from the dryer and punctured one of the suction cups. Gadget still managed to drive out of the room, but the hits against the hull stupefied and disoriented her, so she missed the turn to the backdoor and barely negotiated a door to the garage. Flying from the steps, the mouse braked and looked around, figuring out the way to open the garage gate. But then she heard the footsteps of the running terrorists behind, and could do nothing but drive into the already familiar closet.

"How are you, Chip?" she shouted sticking out of the hatch.

"I'm fine!" Chip answered climbing onto the hull.

"Great! Then jump down, I'll close the door!"

Chip frowned seeing no way to get out of this tiny room with no windows or crevices. They couldn't hide here, much less hide the gyrotank. They evaded Blather, but this time they were dealing with the professionals… who were close, so Chip decided that his questions could wait, jumped down on the floor, and watched what his significant other would come up with now.

As usual, Gadget set up a real techno-fest. Switching the electric engine on, which served not only to rotate the gyroframe but also to move backwards, she closed the door with the gyrotank and initiated the mode switching. As soon as the rear started rising, the mouse drove backwards again, and the vehicle bore against the door with the dryer first, then with the rear part of the skateboard. The gyroframe continued moving until the ram stuck into the floor.

Waiting for a few seconds to make sure the tank was secured solidly, Gadget switched off the straining electric engine and barely squeezed through the lopsided hatch. There were no handles on the hull, she had to clasp to the smooth armor and kept sliding down. She probably wouldn't be able to get out without her husband's assistance who jumped on the nose and dragged her out, his feet set against the edge of the eye slit.

"Are you alright?" he asked when they both were on the floor.

"Absolutely!" Gadget answered as usual. "Here!" She gave Chip a flashlight on elastic strap which he immediately put on his forehead.

"Wow!" he said in amazement. looking around and illuminating the surroundings with white light. "How did you manage to get them?"

"Actually, they fell on me by themselves," Gadget answered putting the similar light on. "I was almost crushed by the equipment rolling from behind, especially an inflatable boat, but I found the flashlights! I've been looking for them for so long—"

The door was pushed fiercely, but the gyro tank resting on two support points didn't bulge.

"See?" Gadget smiled. "No problems! If that boat were inflated, on the other hand, then—"

"Why didn't you use the remote control?" Chip asked, intently watching the door withstanding attacks which grew fiercer and louder each time.

"Because the small remote control doesn't have all the buttons I needed. There is only a mode-switching button which both rotates the frame and turns the wheels up, and I needed the frame to rotate and the wheels—"

They heard gunshots, and two holes appeared just below the doorknob.

"It's good we didn't prop the door with a board or one of those shovels," Chip noted.

"Why would we?" his wife asked in surprise. "The gyrotank is one of the best options!"

The criminals clearly thought the same, and after three more attempts to break the door cursed violently.

Chip thought that Gadget shouldn't hear such obscenities. "But the gyrotank has another remote control!" he said loudly.

"I does. That is, it did. You see, the kinetic contact of bullets and the armored hull resulted in a phenomenon called spalling, involving slivers of metal knocked off the inside of the armor which, owing to their high speed and temperature, have a high killing power—"

"GOSH!" Chip grabbed his wife by her shoulders and began turning her from side to side. "Are you really alright!? Are you sure you aren't wounded!?"

"Sure I'm sure!" Gadget calmed him down. "The majority of the slivers went into the battery and the equipment stashed in the rear, including the main remote control which was rendered useless. The rest hit the back of the driver seat which I made armored because there were no other materials at hand at that time… Okay, Chip, stop it! Even those two quieted down!"

Indeed, no sounds were coming from the garage. Chip came up to the door and pressed his ear to the slit between it and the threshold.

"I hear nothing. I wonder what it means..."

"Maybe they left?" Gadget offered. "We'd called the police, they should have arrived by now."

Chip was about to object that they would have heard the sirens, but then the terrorists returned in full force and even louder. Based on the clatter and din, they threw everything they could from the shelves, including the closet key which they immediately used for its intended purpose.

"They locked the door!" Chip shouted.

"I wonder why," Gadget said.

"To not let us out of here!" Chip answered. He never liked to give obvious and thus useless answers, but he had no other. Until he noticed a thin trickle of oily liquid with a strong and very specific smell dripping from under the door.

"GADGET!" he yelled. "GAS!"

"Thanks, Chip, but I'm not thirsty…" the inventor answered absent-mindedly, but then she noticed the gas trickle which had grown three times larger already and grew pale. "GOLLY! They're going to burn the house down!"

"Nice way to get rid of all bugs and rodents at once, can't argue with that," the chipmunk joked grimly. "Is there any fire extinguishing system here?"

"I didn't saw any."

"Me neither. Do you remember how thick this door is? Will the gyrotank crash through it?"

The mouse went into thinking. "No, probably not. Too little space for acceleration. Well, it could crash through it, and it most certainly would, but it will likely become stuck."

"Its nose and the hatch will be on the other side?" Chip asked.

"Yeah, sure! But the gyroframe will lose its shape and it won't be able to move anywhere, and we'll have to abandon it."

"Better leave it here than remain here with it, don't you think? Let's go!"

Gadget shook her head. "No, Chip, we can't do that! We can't do this to it!"

Chip's eyes bulged. "What?! But, Gadget, it's just a machine!"

Gadget's lips trembled. There were two things she hated the most: losing her close ones and abandoning her inventions; and she couldn't understand how Chip could think so little of the technological devices. If it had been down to him, Tom the electric cat would have remained lying on the scrap yard, like the Ranger Plane later remained on the ground, broken and unneeded.

She was told about its loss too late, when there was nothing to salvage anymore. Now the gyrotank was in the same danger. After the loss of the Ranger Plane it was the second oldest Rescue Rangers' vehicle, yielding the palm to the Rangermobile by a finger's breadth. After so many renovations, modifications and improvements its loss would be almost irreplaceable…

_Golly, that's it! Modification!_ Gadget realized and glanced around looking for solution.

"Gadget, come on!" Chip shouted at her. "It's either it or us!"

"No! It's both!" Gadget objected and pointed at the garden tools in the opposite corner.

Mrs. Blather obviously knew more about gardening than her husband about computers and she had a wide range of tools at her disposal for various kinds of earthwork. One of her collection's centerpieces was a borer fitting for a common electric drill used by the amateur gardener to dig deep round holes suitable for planting bushes or inserting fence props. A long blue hinge with Archimedean screw blades reaching its middle was too heavy for the Rangers, but its detachable tip used to make an initial hole was just what they needed and perfectly fit for installing on the gyrotank.

Initially Chip thought that Gadget was about to reinforce the battering ram with it, but the mouse, as usual, had much more ambitious and non-trivial plans in her mind. She was aware that in the gyromobile mode the gyrotank turned owing to simultaneous rotation of all his suction cups, seven of which ran idle while the last one which the vehicle stood on or hanged from, rotated the vehicle. So she simply removed the suction cup which was damaged by the bullet and screwed the borer on its axle easily turning it into a drill protruding far beyond the ram.

"Come on now!" she announced gladly lowering her goggles on her eyes and powering both engines on. Chip wondered whether he should inform her that during all those preparations the gas had spread on the one third of the closet floor and decided against it. It wouldn't change anything. Even worse than that, his beloved one could start calculating the speed of the gas pool spreading and end up with a convincing proof of what he had already known, that is, if they didn't hurry up, they would become fries. So he just bent twofold on a side chair more or less freed from the equipment and hoped that the hair dryer wouldn't ignite flammable vapors.

"Done!" Gadget announced as she finished drilling the final fifth hole in the door. The borer wasn't quite suited for drilling wood, and the holes had ragged twisted edges. But it was even better this way, for Gadget wanted to make the door as weak as possible in the region of its future collision with the gyrotank which was about to happen—

"Hold on!" the mouse ordered powering the hair dryer to the maximum and holding the brakes down to reach the top revs. Only when the vehicle started vibrating significantly, she released the pedal, and the Ranger Armadillo, as the gyrotank would be probably called if it hadn't been built in great haste, darted towards the unknown heavily smelling with gas.

"Golly, I totally forgot to take the bore off!" Gadget exclaimed when they were halfway through. If the long thin collided with the door, even weakened, it could destroy the whole vehicle. It was too late to brake, so Gadget aimed the tank exactly in the center of the door, at one of the holes, and hoped that the borer would enter right into it, and the battering ram would be the first to hit the door.

Acceptable departure from the hole's centre was about one third of its radius which meant that the chances were 40 to 60 in door's favor. But the fate rewarded the heroes for all the good they had done. The borer entered right into the hole, and the gyrotank along with an accurate rectangle broken out of the door entered the garage and slid on gas covering the floor. It was not only useless to hit the brakes but it could also lead to explosion, so Gadget turned the dryer off and switched into reverse. The door piece and the borer continued moving in the previous direction while the gyrotank, skidding a couple of times, came to rest against something firm. This time the Rangers fastened their equipment and spare parts much stronger and the heaviest thing that broke free was the already mentioned inflatable boat.

Gadget was unfastening her belt while Chip was already out of the hatch and looking about. The image was dismal to say the least. The wall shelves were empty, and various containers with combustibles and lubricants filling it previously were stacked into a pyramid on the free parking slot, and their contents had flooded the whole garage. There was no fire yet, but dark stains on the steps leading into the rest of the house indicated that the criminals would have no issues with delivering it here. They were probably pouring gas over the furniture and floor in the living room and upstairs to guarantee the destruction of all traces of their visit.

Chip looked at the gate and smiled gloomily. As could be expected, both consoles were broken, and the last door which, as he remembered, opened inside the house, was barricaded with something so heavily that it bulged. Yes, these two men were perfectly aware who they were dealing with, and left no chances to their little victims. Sure, they knew nothing about their gyrotank, but even it could hardly help them.

"So, what's up, Chip?" Gadget asked as she got out of the hatch. But then she understood everything without words. "Any ideas?"

The Sciuridae representative scratched his head. "Let's think logically."

"Okay!"

"There are two exits — the door and the gates. Gates are metallic and are fully disabled so we'll cross them out. So the door remains. It's wooden, but it's obviously barricaded with something heavy. There are also steps in front of it, so we won't be able to ram it. The amateur detective has finished. What the technical genius will say?"

Gadget was too engrossed in thoughts to notice his kudos. She looked at the gates, then at something on the ceiling. "We'll try to break through." She said finally.

"Where?"

"Through the gates."

"Gadget, we had to drill through the closet door, and these gates are made of metal. The ram is useless against them!"

"Depends on the ram."

Chip walked to the edge of the hull and looked down. "Well, you're an engineer, but I'm afraid we'll need a bulldozer hoe here, and in my humble opinion, they are too large to be installed on the gyrotanks."

"Who's talking about the gyrotank?" Gadget asked in surprise. "We've got something much bigger here!"

Chip looked around and finally noticed what had blocked their way. It was the rear wheel of the Ford that stayed in the garage. Chip laughed. "The big is truly seen from distance. You think we'll manage it?"

Gadget shrugged. "Do we have a choice? Although, we do. You have at least two outs even if you are eaten, so..."

"Let's not delve into it, dear," the chipmunk offered. "I think I'm hearing sirens, and if I hear them, the criminals will hear them, too, and burn everything here. So work your magic while it's not too hot down here!"

And Gadget went to work. Time was running out, so the fastest solutions were chosen for the two problems they were facing: getting into the car and get out of here by it.

The first problem was solved in a straightforward way: they jumped. But first Gadget had to perform some elaborate manipulations with the gyrotank's suction cups, namely distribute them along the gyroframe perimeter so that the absence of the eighth didn't affect the vehicle's capability to climb walls and ceilings. The mouse assured Chip that this balancing mechanism allowed the vehicle to overcome the loss of two or even three suction cups. In the latter case, though, the climbing height and the obstacle material were very important…

Here Chip interrupted her, making her remember what they came here for and unseal the suction cups. The gyrotank fell on unfortunate Ford, namely on the windshield. The forward shock absorber creaked painfully, and the cabin received another undocumented entrance.

"Shouldn't we fasten it somehow?" Chip offered as he climbed out of the tank behind his wife.

"No, the hood will hold it. I'll start the engine, and you take care of the gear!" Gadget threw her husband a rope roll and ran towards the ignition carrying preens, pins and the inflatable boat. Chip looked at dents in the hood made by the gyrotank's wheels and found them too shallow to hold the tank. Bu then he gave up on it, thinking that whatever would be, would be, and jumped on the gear switching handle. The Rescue Rangers had experience of handling the human cars and even driving them, but their entire team was usually involved, and they had never had to start the car in less than thirty seconds with only two pair of hands. Gadget and Chip were about to set a record, but they didn't think about it this way. When you are in the gas-flooded garage about to catch fire, you have other pressing matters at hand.

"Done!" Gadget shouted when the engine started. "How are you?"

"Almost done!" Chip shouted as he finished turning the rope he received into an elaborate system meant to help them switching into a reverse gear. Blather's car had an automatic transmission installed, so they just had to move the handle from the current Parking position into a Reverse position next to it. But it was only a small part of the necessary actions. To start a car is a whole ritual may people perform mindlessly not even thinking of how difficult it truly is, especially for small rodents.

"Good," Gadget climbed onto the steering wheel and grabbed its rim with both hands. "Ready… Go!"

Swinging on her hands, she jumped onto the brake pedal which must have be pressed in order for the safety system to allow switching from the Parking gear. As soon as the pedal went down, Chip pulled one of the rope's end tightening the noose and pressing the control switch, and then pulled the other one bringing the handle one step closer to him.

"Done!" he shouted when the handle moved into position with a distinct click. Now they needed to remove the parking brake and give full throttle.

"Chip, catch!" Gadget threw him the inflatable boat almost knocking him off. "It's for the throttle pedal. Pull the cord on my command!"

The chipmunk forcefully nudged the boat between the dashboard wall and the pedal. Gadget, in turn, jumped on the seat, then on the steering wheel, and then on the rectangular button of parking brake release mechanism on the bottom of the dashboard.

"FASTER, GADGET!" Chip yelled seeing flame reflections dancing on the car windows. The garage became dark with smoke. In a couple of seconds the fire would reach the canisters and—

"PULL IT!" Gadget commanded. Chip jerked the cord, and the inflatable boat hissed and rapidly grew in size. It was made of the human hot-water bag and instantly filled the space under the steering wheel pressing the throttle pedal deep into the floor. The tachometer needle flew through the entire scale in a blink of an eye, the forward leading wheels shrieked and Taurus darted backwards tearing the gate out along with the hinges. And just in time, for the flame just reached the half-empty canisters and the house's north wing became a fireball. The car was thrown up, its windows shattered into pieces, and Chip, barely clasping the tight ropes, bid farewell to the gyrotank which, according to his understanding of physics, was currently flying forty or fifty feet above the town. But then he looked upwards, saw the familiar outline pressed to the roof by the opened hood, and realized that Gadget, as always, calculated everything through for several steps ahead.

"Chip, catch!" The mouse's voice drowned in the din, but when a thin pin dug into the floor next to him, Chip understood everything without a word. He picked up the pin, got to the boat via the ropes and made a few holes in it. The boat was boxed from all sides and had nowhere to fly, so it just deflated sorrowfully with not too pleasant sound and released the throttle pedal. Chip pressed the brake pedal, but he lacked the strength and the speed was too high for the car to stop immediately, so Taurus crossed both the lawn and the road and stopped on the opposite side of the street where its rear bumper hit the lamppost. The hit caused the hood to drop, and the gyrotank rolled into the dents it made previously as though it never moved anywhere.

"Faster, Chip!" Gadget called out again. There was no need to explain the reason of rush to Chip. The police sirens were very close by now, and they were not their friends but enemies to be evaded. They also had to keep in mind Brad and Pete who couldn't have gotten too far away.

"Start the engine, I'll be right back!" Chip shouted at his wife who was already climbing onto the gyrotank, then went back to the gear handle and gnawed through the taut ropes. He didn't have time to fully cover their tracks, but this way the connection between the ropes and the car powering up wasn't too obvious.

_I hope the cops didn't become too clever after the Blather's show…_ Chip thought as he climbed on the dashboard covered with windshield shards and then onto the gyrotank. _If they all become like those two, our lives will get very hard…_

"What took you so long?" Gadget asked when he closed the hatch.

"Did some cleaning. Drive around the house, to the backdoor! We'll look for the tracks there."

"Got it!" Gadget turned the gyrotank around on the hood and switched to full current to get away as fast as possible. The armored vehicle drove off the hood, crossed the street, clumsily negotiated a low curb, and disappeared behind the burning house corner a second before two police cars arriving from the opposite directions stopped in front of it.

"They are just on time, as always!" Chip commented.

"It's their job." Gadget answered, too occupied with driving to notice his sarcasm. Chip chuckled, but didn't belabor the topic. He had no time. Just five hundred feet away from the Blathers house there was a hill covered with dense vegetation of South Mountain Reservation, and a blue van was driving towards it in full speed. If the Rescue Rangers were any good in adding two and two, this vas the van Blather mentioned, and it was carrying Brad and Pete with whom the heroes had to become close no matter what.

"How do you plan to catch up with them?" Chip asked warily somehow knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"I'll cut corners." Gadget pointed at a car driving from behind trees. "The road goes around the hill. We'll drive straight and intercept them on the other side!"

"Uhm, Gadget, and how will we drive through there?"

"Like a hot knife through a boiling butter!"

"Nice analogy..." Chip muttered to himself. It was indeed the best option they had, though. In moments like this the leader of the Rangers deeply regretted having only one long-range flyer on the team. He thought about inviting Midge, but she had her own family now, and the need to migrate every year to warm countries wouldn't allow her to work on the team long enough to develop necessary skills in the first place.

As soon as the gyrotank entered the nature reserve territory, Chip, despite the thrill of the chase, grew dreary. He didn't like forests. A strange feeling for a chipmunk, but absolutely natural for a crimefighter. In the forests he clearly saw how lonely the Rescue Rangers are in their fight. Now. when autumn came and it was time to stock up for the winter, South Mountain was abundant with life, but for the Rangers it was like a lifeless wasteland. What could be more natural than climb on that ash and ask the crows settled on it to follow the van carrying dangerous criminals? The right answer was to count on yourself only. In the best case scenario such a strange request would be met with indifference, in the worst case the birds would attack them with their beaks and claws. Roy Batty's flying squad was a happy exception from the rules, but even they agreed to help only because Foxglove introduced Chip as George Bailey. Out here, relatively far away from the civilization, where the law of the wild ruled and the largest predator served as the judge, everyone survived by all available means, oftentimes spending their entire life on the territory strictly delineated by their ancestors and knowing almost nothing about the outside world. Not because they were silly. They just didn't want to waste their breath being involved in strange but obviously dangerous ventures offering gains of dubious value. Even in big cities where the animals had live examples of human law enforcement officers before them, most of them preferred to live the old way adhering to the proverb 'not my circus, not my monkeys'. That's why several vigilante teams like WaGuS created with the Rescue Rangers' support were not a predictable result of their heavy work, but a miracle.

"Hold on, Chip! I'm switching into the second gear!"

"And which one was tha-A-A-AT!?" Chip grabbed his seat and planted his feet against the floor, but still kept sliding towards the nose. "GADGET!"

"No worries, just a very steep slope!" Gadget answered maneuvering between the trees. The gyrotank drove through some gaps, squeezed through other peeling the bark off the trees with its frame, and even flew through some, like between two thick branches of a mighty elm's split trunk. "Don't you worry, the highway is close." She pointed at the approaching road. "They won't get away from us!"

"I'm more concerned with us not flying away from them! How are you going to drop the speed?"

"Exactly, Chip! I'm going to drop it! Get ready!"

The chipmunk had a bad feeling about it and clenched with his teeth and claws to his seat as Gadget pulled a handle by her right leg, which resembled a hand brake lever. The resemblance was not accidental, for the handle controlled the locks of a four-pawed braking anchor which fell out from its chamber and dragged behind the gyrotank searching for something hard enough.

"It caught hold!" Gadget exclaimed merrily hearing a din of unwinding chain underneath.

"What are you talking about?"

"Emergency brake."

_Emergency brake? _Chip couldn't believe his own ears. _She made quite a progress! If only—_

"Gadget, please, tell me, what this brake is attached to, the hull or the skateboard?"

"The board, of course! But don't worry, the chain is fastened stronger than the hull itself!"

"That's what scares me."

Gadget looked at her husband who was paler than usual and frowned, bewildered. "Wait a minute, you mean—"

"Do you think they are dead?" Pete asked again. He was still unable to settle down after the skirmish at the Blather's house and nervously slapped his knees from time to time.

"Didn't you hear the explosion?" the driver, Brad, answered with a question of his own. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to speak with his cracked up partner.

"I did! But I saw no bodies!"

"Bodies? The whole house went up, what bodies are you talking about?"

"At least some! At least something to know for sure they're dead and not sitting in this very heap!" Pete nodded at a large roadside heap of leaves they were passing by. "By the way, something's moving there!"

"Don't be bonkers, Petey, it's only a wind!"

"You sure?"

"No, I'm not. But I'm afraid there's nothing left of them after the explosion, so you're about to suffer from doubts till the end of your days!" Brad slapped his partner's shoulder with feigned sympathy and laughed loudly.

"You think that's funny?" Pete grumbled.

His partner just shrugged. "I proposed to kick the door in. You refused."

"Of course I refused! Okay, we kicked the door in, then what? Chase them around with shoes? You saw what that monster did to Ferrante and MacMillan? They were lucky the darts contained tranquilizer!"

"So you say we just barely got away with our lives? Are you sure you saw the MAP in the first place?"

"Like I'm seeing you!"

"And that Elvis back then, right?"

"Oh, come on! What was that thing that hit you, huh? Any ideas?"

"I think it was a cleaner robot. I read about some similar models—"

"Bullet-proof? Shut up and take my money!"

"You should have aimed better."

"What?" Pete grew indignant. "I'm a better shooter than you!"

"Oh, stop it! You just got lucky that one time!"

"Yeah! 'I'll hit the target with my eyes closed and without aiming!' I remember that!"

"Shut up! What do you want me to do? It was your idea to blow everything up and run away!"

"Yes! Or the cops would have gotten us!"

"Yeah, sure." Brad chuckled. "Just acknowledge that you had cold feet! And don't mention the phone, it's not even funny anymore!"

"Don't mention the phone, huh?" his partner asked. "So what did they do around it?"

"I think they just got curious what I did to it."

"So you say they know a thing or two about electronics but don't know how to dial a number?"

"You think they know it even exists?"

"Well, if cats and dogs sometimes call 9-1-1 to call an ambulance to their dying master—"

Brad sniffed. "Coincidence!"

"Too many coincidences! I'd rather believe the animals have some special trained team that knows how to use our devices than that some dog decides to play with a phone right when his two-legged friend feels bad and accidentally calls the rescue service!"

"You are watching too much TV, Petey!"

Pete ran out of arguments. "Shove it! And watch the road, or you'll miss the turn!"

"Shove it yourself! The turn is far away. And calm down, the van's shaking!"

Pete kept twitching and cursing under his breath for some time, but gradually settled down. His partner was right, after all. After such explosions very little remains of humans, not to mention little rodents.

_Calm down, old man,_ he told himself straightening his shoulders and leaning back on his seat. _Nobody could have survived this, and so they didn't survive, too. Everything's fine. Traces of our intrusion are destroyed, mouse assassin is… assassinated! Yeah, assassinated! Yeah, I should calm down. Or I'll keep seeing mouse tanks in every garbage pile…_

Enormously powerful jerk didn't let Gadget finish. But even if it did, her words would have been drowned by a loud crack.

Just as Gadget promised, the chain fastening held. The chain itself, taken off some very mountain bike, held too. But the authors of a popular TV show are right when they say that there is always a weak link, and in this round the team was failed by rivets that held the armored hull in place. To be honest, Gadget had long wanted to replace them with welded seam, but every time, when at the end of her working day she picked up her welder, another idea of major modification occurred to her, and welding of four seams looked so primitive in comparison that it clearly could wait…

In short, the welding never actually took place. So when the anchored skateboard stopped, the hull along with gyroframe, hair dryer and the two Rescue Rangers continued moving down the slope, gathering all leaves and tufts along its way which quickly entered every hole including the vision slit. As the result, this substance, very useful for the forest but very unpleasant by its look and feel, flooded the cabin as thick as the cheese Monterey Jack had conjured up filled the Headquarters. It buried the hull underneath it leaving only a couple of rear suction cups sticking from the rear. This was the heap Pete noticed without knowing how close to reality his hallucinations truly were.

Meanwhile the heap he and his partner dismissed so easily moved again, and a small head with a mop of previously blond hair now covered with dirt stuck out of it. The roof hatch was obstructed, so Gadget had to squeeze through the vision slit. Climbing out, she quickly ran onto the roof and began to dig out the hatch.

"Need any help?" somebody's voice asked.

"Yes, sure! My husband is down there, we—" Gadget stuttered and looked at the chipmunk standing in front of her. He was black-brownish from the earth covering him from head to toe, but no dirt could cover his shining eyes and smile. "CHIP! You… How did you get out?"

"From below, through the escape hatch. Its cover was torn away during the fall. Forgive me."

"For what?" Gadget wondered. "It wasn't you who broke it. And even if you had broken it, I wouldn't have anything to forgive you for, since it was me who installed— mhm—"

The end of her phrase was muffled because of Chip's lips covering her mouth.

"Chip, don't, I'm dirty," Gadget asked when Chip paused to catch his breath.

"Me too," Chip said and kissed her again. "You know, there's something, like, primeval about it, I dunno…"

"I've seen a deep dirty puddle not far from here if you like!"

Chip bulged his eyes and stuck his tongue out pretending to have a heavy form of sea sickness. "No thanks, I'm amateur, not a pro. Okay, what've we got?"

"Gyrotank broke in halves!"

"That's minus. What about pluses?"

"I can repair it, but I need time!"

The chipmunk realized that Gadget could think of nothing else but the broken vehicle at the moment.

"Alright, the I'll start. Blather was under Black Table's surveillance even before his show aired, which confirms the version about them organizing the leak of information."

"Which we copied," Gadget added. Clearing up an edge of the hull with her foot, she sat down with her legs dangling.

Chip didn't bother to clear the dirt and just plumped down right next to her. "Which we copied, yes. Additionally, the Black Table knows who we are. It's bad, but let's hope that after the explosion they wrote us off as irretrievable losses. It give us a chance to get closer to them and this 'chemist' who knows too much about you and your looks. Any ideas who can that be?"

Gadget shrugged. "Snow, who else?"

"Yes, he's the first coming to mind," Chip agreed. "He's physiologist, not chemist, but these thugs can just ignore such trifles. He's dead, too, and we don't need to look for him anymore."

"But it doesn't suit you," Gadget didn't ask but stated.

"Let's put it that way: I prefer suspecting the worst. So let's assume it's someone alive and very dangerous. Most probably it's one of the immediate members of the MAP project. Do you remember those who worked with you?"

"I remember a couple of faces, but not their names. They called one another 'doctor', 'sir' and 'ma'am', and I could never read their ID tags."

Chipmunk grew upset and sucked his teeth. "We should have looked for them earlier! Now it will be very hard to locate these people… Oh well, it's not our first time. It's bad overall, but not fatal, and it's quite good for the first field trip!"

"It depends on whom you ask," the inventor pointed at the smokestack rising above the forest behind them.

"Nobody died, that's what important, And the house was probably insured. It could be worse."

"Yes, probably." The mouse started to rise, and the chipmunk immediately jumped up and lent her his hand.

"Now it remains to find a way to get back home with all of this," Chip stomped his foot against the armor.

Gadget nodded. "Leave it up to me. I've got a couple of ideas… But I'll need my tools!" she pointed at the hatch. "And they are all in there!"

"Well," Chip sighed, took off his jacket and shook his arms like a swimmer before a race. "In that case, make your list…"


	5. Chapter 4 Rises and Falls

**Chapter 4**

**Rises and Falls**

* 15 *

_Day Second, morning—evening_

Two obstacles really hindered Stan Blather's work. First, the police didn't let the media representatives closer than three hundred and fifty feet from the building, so he was forced to make his broadcasts against the general view, and thus his picture was similar to that of his competitors. Second, as soon as he had stepped out of his bus, these competitors literally attacked him asking for his comments about the situation at hand.

Truth be told, Stan didn't consider their attention unpleasant. But he was also aware that by answering their questions he increases their ratings, and since disaster is disaster, but capitalist contest is capitalist contest, he did his best to avoid the questions politely and get off with platitudes. The other journalist didn't like that, but they weren't angry at him since they would behave in a similar way in his place. So they went away in search of other, more talkative sources. Stan and Lonny made a short introductory report, he main narrative of which was 'it will be a long time until we know the whole truth, so stay with us' and hurried to do the same.

The first to be caught by Kravitz' camera was an ambulance driver waiting for his turn to pass the barrier.

"Stan Blather, WBC! Say your name, please."

"Dick Livingston."

"Tell me, Dick, is this your first visit here?"

"No, it's tenth already."

"You're carrying the injured, right?"

"Corpses aren't our specialty."

"Yes, of course. What's the state of the injured?"

"It varies."

"Did they say who did it? Do they have any ideas?"

"No, they didn't. They said nothing at all. They had other things to worry about."

"Sure, sure. And who do you think did it?"

"The Black Table, of course, who else! By the way, it was you doing that show yesterday? Our entire family watched it! Is it all true?"

"Unfortunately, it is. Thanks for the interview!"

"Hey, Stan, you're famous!" Leonard said when the ambulance drove away.

"Come on," Stan waved it aside. "People started learning the truth, that's what really matters! Well, who should be ask next… Oh! Let's go, Lonny! Something's going on there!"

Indeed, a man appeared at the barrier who didn't have to do anything to attract attention. His black business suit and white hard hat were covered with as much dust as one can gather while slowly walking from the HQ trailer, looking pristine in comparison with clothing of ordinary rescuers. The journalists immediately knew it was someone from the upper floors and stampeded towards him.

"Who are you? What agency do you represent? What can you tell the public?" Questions poured from all sides. The man didn't respond, though, clearly waiting for large enough audience to gather so that he wouldn't have to repeat anything.

"May I have your attention, please!" he asked rising his hands. A sheet of paper was clutched in one of them, and all the eyes and cameras turned to it immediately.

But the man quickly turned its filled side to him and spoke, wincing at flashlights. "My name is Walter Coolidge. I am the FBI supervisory special agent and I am heading the investigation of this incident. Currently we know for a fact about one hundred thirty two victims, but the removal of debris doesn't stop even for a minute, so this data is far from final_—_"

"How many people were in the building?" one of the reporters asked. His colleagues were curious about it, too, and Coolidge had to rise his hand again to urge calm.

"You will have an opportunity to ask me your questions, but let me finish first. Thank you. According to our data, at the moment of the explosion there were two hundred and sixty seven people in the building, and at least eleven of those survived. one hundred and eight were killed, and the rest are considered missing. All of them worked for National Fund for Democracy, who were the owners of the building—"

"Why had it been kept secret for so long?" somebody asked, but Walter pretended he didn't hear the unsanctioned question.

"As of now, no terrorist organization took the responsibility for this explosion, but we have reasons to believe that the so-called Black Table is behind it. We know very little about this organization, but the results of the forensic analysis show that the explosives the terrorists used is identical to those used to blow up the federal building in Oklahoma-City on April 19, 1995. That's why we are working on a version that Black Table was responsible for that crime, too, and the Director of the FBI personally ordered to reopen the OKBOMB case. I finished. You may ask your questions now."

He didn't have to ask twice. Truth be told, he didn't have to ask even once.

"Ann Ryce, ATVC! What about Doctor Archibald Snow?"

"As far as I know, he wasn't in the building."

"Jack Stewart, RHOX News! What is your comment on the night calls and the photos sent by the stranger?"

"You know better than me that you can't trust photos these days."

"You mean they were fakes?"

"Since we don't have the original photos in our possession, we can't say anything for sure. But, yes, I think they were fakes."

"April O'Neil, Channel Six! Why the Black Table destroyed the building if Doctor Snow wasn't there?"

"As I said, the building was owned by National Fund for Democracy, and one of its goals is fighting for human rights and civil freedoms around the world. Most probably, it was the revenge from those who oppose such activities. The veil of secrecy one of you mentioned was due to security reason."

"Why do you think the terrorists sent those fake photos?"

"We suppose they did it on purpose, to lure the press representatives here where they fell victims to the explosion. I think the criminals wanted to demonstrate they consider everyone who brings freedom and democracy to the people to be their enemies, including independent press that our country is rightfully proud of."

The reporters knew that this 'admittance' was a prearranged PR stunt, but still were pleased and impressed.

Not every one of them was, though. "Stan Blather, WBC! Why then they wanted to interrogate me yesterday, and why is my house under surveillance?"

Coolidge flinched as if hit by a whip and looked for the speaker. Blather and Lonny were among the last to get here and had to stand in the third row. But after his words the others gave way. and he and his operator were able to get into the center of attention.

"So, what will you say?" Stan repeated his question, this time not for the FBI agent but for the microphones directed at him from all sides.

The head of investigation made a helpless gesture. "Mister Blather, I don't understand what are you—"

"Do names Berg and Sanchez ring any bells?"

"No. Should they?"

"I think so! They are your colleagues from the Bureau! They came to me yesterday and demanded to tell them about my sources!" this time wizened Blather used plural form of the noun. "Without any order, mind you! That's an outrage!"

"Believe me, Mister Blather, me and my team have nothing to do with it. Thousands of agents work for the FBI and even I don't know all of them personally. On the other hand," Coolidge quickly added when everybody smiled skeptically and even somewhat condescendingly, "I can safely assume that our agents really visited you, but only to find out how correct the information you have told is, and to take measures to quickly investigate the case. As far as I can understand, that was exactly your goal; I mean to attract attention to this crime. We'll do our best, I assure you, to not allow your work and the work of your colleagues to come to naught! So please allow me on behalf of the entire Federal Bureau of Investigations to thank you for your bravery and dedication! This country badly needs the reporters like you!"

Coolidge clapped his hands a couple of times, and everybody joined him except the operators who didn't stop filming the events even for a second trying hard to miss nothing. Even Stan thawed a little.

"Thanks, Mister Coolidge, I—" Blather stopped short. Either he was imagining things, or some insect really peeked out from under the agent's collar and quickly hid back.

The special agent interpreted this pause in his own way. "And concerning your house being under surveillance, Mister Blather, I promise you to investigate everything thoroughly! Thank you for the signal! And now you must excuse me, I must return to my duties. I think that in the evening me or my assistants will gather all of you again to inform you about the rescue operation progress. Thanks for your attention!"

Waving goodbye with his sheet of paper, he turned around and left quickly, ignoring the avalanche of questions. Realizing than no encores were in the program, and that Blather had no intention of telling about his experience of talking to the FBI any more than he already had, the reporters wandered off again. Stan and Lonny also began looking for someone to make an interview with, but this time this 'someone' found them first.

"Mister Blather!" a stout African American wearing beige jacket shouted and walked up to them, fetching his ID from his pocket. "Detective Carter, Metropolitan Police. May I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," Stan answered signaling Lonny to turn his camera on. Carter glanced at the camera and smiled, but didn't protest and fetched a notepad from his other pocket.

"Tell me, Mister Blather, are you the owner of a two-storied house at Crestwood Drive, Four, Maplewood, New Jersey?"

Blather froze. "Yes. I am. Why?"

"There was an explosion in your house. It burnt down completely. I'm sorry."

For a few seconds Stan was in stupor, and Lonny bet with himself for five dollars that he would collapse. And he lost, for Blather perked up and moved at the police detective menacingly. "Is this some kind of joke?" he hissed. "Or maybe a threat? What was your name, you say? Tell me your badge number, please. Lonny, call the police, we'll check him out!"

Carter didn't bat an eye. "You're welcome. Call anywhere you like. You can also call Captain Finchley in Maplewood Police Department."

"Finchley, you said?"

"Yes, Finchley. He called us when your channel told him you're here, in Washington."

Stan balked. The captain of the Maplewood police was surnamed Finchley, indeed, but one could easily look it up in a phone book or on the internet, so the reporter decided to double check. He didn't remember the Finchley's office phone number, but he did remembered the phone number of his channel's studio. When they confirmed to receive a call from Maplewood concerning his house, Blather realized the situation was very, very serious.

"You should call Finchley, Mister Blather," Carter advised, but Stan didn't react.

"Thank you, we'll do it," Kravitz answered on his colleague's behalf. The detective nodded and left and Leonard embraced Blather by his shoulders and led him to their van. He knew Stan's family was out of town and asked nothing. Only when they came to the van and Blather sat down right on the cabin floor, Lonny poke. "Want some coffee?"

"Yes, probably," Stan nodded. "And know what, Lonny?"

"What?"

"Gather the others. From the other channels, I mean."

"Other channels? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, that would be better."

"If you say so."

Considering who Blather was, it was even easier to fulfill his request than buy some coffee. But Kravitz decided to combine these tasks and headed to the nearest food truck the whole trailer park of which opened along the security perimeter in attempt to feed the needful workers, reporters and onlookers. Just as he expected, he met several guys from the other reporting groups, who in turn recognized him as the operator of Stan Blather himself, and as soon as Lonny hinted at the upcoming press-conference they were gone at the drop of a hat.

When Leonard returned to the bus carrying two cups of espresso, there were four TV groups already and the people kept coming. Stan was inside writing something in his small notepad. He used a backup camera tripod as his prop and looked like a true surrealist painter whose brush was flying about the canvas lagging far behind the master's visions.

"Here's your coffee, Stan," the operator announced, prudently placing the cup on a flat rigid surface out of Stan's elbow's reach.

"Uh-huh," Stan nodded and turned the page.

"Stan, the people are gathering…"

"I'm coming! Listen, what's the best word to finish: 'blast' or 'freedom'?"

Kravitz twitched involuntarily. "Depends on what you're writing. If it's a drama with happy ending, then 'freedom' is a better choice, and if it's a bad-end thriller—"

"Lonny, I'm serious!"

"I don't know, Stan. As for me, it's better to rely on improvisation. You're really good at it."

"You think so?" Stan tapped his pen against his teeth. "Yes, you're probably right… Yes, I'll do that, thanks! Have you brought the coffee?"

"Over there."

"Great!" Blather took a sip and grimaced. "It's hot! Okay, take the camera! We're working!"

The opening of the van's door caused greater uproar than curtain rising on some Broadway musical premiere. All the cameras were put on shoulders, all the microphones pointed in the needed direction. As Leonard exercised his home team rights and edged his competitors out of the best angle, Stan spoke. "Dear colleagues! Just a few minutes ago the DC police informed me that there was an explosion in my house and it was completely destroyed by fire."

The spectators gasped, closed their ranks and stepped closer.

"Was your family injured?" O'Neill inquired.

"No, but thanks for asking. They weren't at home."

"Jack Stewart, RHOX News. Do you think it was an attempt on your life?"

"I have no idea. I haven't contacted my hometown police yet, so I don't know all the details."

"Will you go there?" the ATVC reporter asked with interest and hope and once.

Blather barely contained his smile and shook his head. "I must admit that my first urge was to do just that. But then I thought that if the purpose of that explosion was to scare me, and I would leave the crime scene, then the terrorists would win, and I don't want that. And I am sure nobody here wants it, too."

Truth be told, the reporters gathered in front of Stan would prefer to get rid of such a high-rated competitor, but didn't say it aloud. Blather understood it clearly, but kept mum, too, for if such an admission was broadcasted all over the country, it would really hurt the image of democratic mass media and thus his own personal image, too.

"Do you think the FBI is involved in it?"

If Blather weren't prepared for this question, he would probably blurt out something assertive. But he had time to think everything through and conclude that ungrounded accusation would only hurt and scuttle emerging warming of relations with law enforcement agencies, becoming a trigger for the future defamation actions.

"I don't want to accuse anybody," he said. "Like I said, I don't know every detail. It could be a trivial gas leak or something like that. But there's one thing I can say for sure: whatever caused this explosion, I won't back down."

"In other words, it won't affect your investigation in any way?"

"Absolutely! First. copies of all my materials are kept in safe places. Second, if the explosion is indeed connected with my work, then I and my team are on the right track! And we won't back down! For, as Agent Coolidge correctly put it, you can't imagine the free America without free mass media not subject to any pressure! But what freedom can we talk about if those who must defend it can be scared off with mere explosions?"

Blather was speaking while standing on the ground. But if he climbed on the van's roof, it would be considered not a madman's prank but an appropriate finale for his speech. And while his fellow journalists couldn't say they fully shared his negligence towards 'mere explosions', especially in plural, they applauded him. Even the operators joined in, coming down with cheers and loud stomping of their feet. If the elections were held right there and then, Stan would be a real contender to become the President.

Afterwards the reporting crews broke into pairs and trios again to record their impressions and comments to be used in future extended reports. Stan finished his coffee and, feeling refreshed, went back to business, proving everybody, himself included, that he was not a coward despite being a little afraid of not as much as unknown villains as talking to his wife.

He didn't have to stay afraid long, though. Just five minutes after his address she called him herself. Yes, she watched TV. Yes, the police called them. Of course it's very bad. No, she didn't like his phrase about explosions. Yes, she and children are proud of him. And yes, she's glad she allowed herself to be talked into leaving with children despite them skipping school which was paid in advance. Yes, she loves him.

What's there to be afraid of after this?

"Stan, your house is on air!"

Handing Lonny the microphone, Blather told them to finish interviewing the firemen they had caught and ran to the mobile TV studio. The picture was far from pleasant, indeed. Police and firefighting cars, onlookers telling each other the news for the tenth time, and smoldering ruins twined with yellow police strap instead of his comfortable two-storied house.

"I'm sorry," the technician who called Stan said in low voice.

"Thanks," the reporter muttered. He pointed at the World News Network conglomerate's logo in the corner of the screen. "Is it necessary to watch our competitor's channel?"

"Is it my fault that they were the first to arrive?"

"How much did they gain?"

"Around forty two percent."

"On my house! Rascals! Alright, turn it off! I know them, they won't tell anything of interest!"

Stan wasn't bemused by the competitor's intrigue but, on the contrary, it mobilized him. He delved into his work head-first. He took the best interviews in his career, and the reporters from competing channels could only grit their teeth when they heard 'I've already told everything to your colleague, Stan Blather!' Even the sun began to droop, and he still ran about the place asking questions with the same energy and skill as two or three hours ago. It seemed that nothing could stop this tireless reporter and soon the moment would come when he enters the HQ trailer and reports the details of his visit from the destroyed building's roof.

But the trouble came from where it was least expected.

"Stanley, my boy!" It was Jefferson, and even Blather, overwhelmed with working euphoria, found his voice superfluously jolly. "You were a monster! I haven't felt so enraptured since Reagan's speech to evangelicals! You have a gift, a real gift! Have you ever thought about political career?"

"No, Mister Jefferson, I—"

"Tobias, Stanley, just Tobias."

"Thank you, but—"

"Tell me, are you very busy out there?"

Stan didn't expect this question from his superior. "Well, yes, right now me and Lonny—"

"Oh, Lonny, sure, how could I forget! You're two real friends, huh?"

The more Jefferson spoke the clearer it seemed to Blather he was raving. Or drunk, which was totally off-character for him.

"Please, Tobias, listen—"

"No, Stanley, you listen. There's one little business… In short why don't you pass the mike to Nolan and come here, okay?"

"But why?"

"All the questions later! The helicopter is coming, mind you! So hurry!"

"But, Mister Jefferson, wait! What about my broadcast? What about all of it?"

"I'm waiting!" Tobias said ignoring his pleas and hang up. Blather started at the phone in his hand, confused, feeling the ground crumbling under his feet. The explosion in his house could be dismissed as a simple coincidence. But Jefferson's behavior couldn't be accidental. No, something was wrong here. Very wrong.

"Mister Blather!" a scrawny mop-headed guy ran up to him. It was Christopher Nolan who had been substituting perished Ray MacNamara until Blather's arrival. "I got a call from the office, they told me to replace you. What's going on?"

"I have no idea, Chris, I just don't know. But something's going on, indeed. Alright, here you go." Stan handed his microphone over to his Washington colleague. "Work, gain experience, and most important: feel yourself at home. If you have any questions, don't be shy to ask Lonny. He helps me and he'll help you. And don't miss Coolidge's entry, okay?"

"Okay, Mister Blather! Should I drive you?"

"Are you crazy? All the equipment is in there! And you must be on air all the time! Got it? All the time! I'll take taxi. What's the address?"

* 16 *

Even the most attenuated and poetic souls wouldn't call the dawn empurpled waters of Newark Bay still. First, it was home of Port Newark, one of the twenty busiest marine terminals in the world, which accepted the cargo destined to New York and all the north-eastern states in general. Second, it was constantly patrolled by dredge barges closely monitoring the state of rapidly shallowing navigable passage which allowed the port to service even the largest of ships. But the main peace-breakers were the planes arriving to and departing from Newark Liberty International Airport located less than a mile away from the shore. This noisy crowding was ideal for throwing off 'tails', and hundreds of acres occupied with containers were perfect for secret meetings where the darkest of deals were made.

"Do you feel like King of the World now, cutie?"

"Stick to business, Foxy! Where are they now?"

The offended bat pursed her lips but obediently filled the surroundings with her ultrasonic impulse.

"Between those two containers!" she answered studying a panorama in her brain resembling the scene from 'The Dark Knight'. "They are moving in south-western direction!"

"Heard that?" Dale addressed two pigeons flying alongside them. "Tell your crews to move out!"

"Affirmative!" the WaGuS Air Force commanders reported and flew to their subordinates who waited for orders while mixed with the others of their kind who crowded on a pier waiting for a grain-carrying barge to arrive. Foxglove headed towards the base of a dockside crane on the edge of the pier where WaGuS ground forces led by labrador Reaves.

"So, guys, are you ready for some work?" the chipmunk asked merrily.

The vigilante squad cheered up instantly. "We are! At last! We're falling asleep already!"

"Don't sleep or you'll freeze!" Dale jokingly wagged his finger at his associates and turned to Dozer who acted as Signal Corps. "What's Fishburn's status?"

"All gathered up, Mister Dale!" the bird reported vigorously.

"Great! So, here's the plan! Reaves' group blocks the land, airpower blocks the air, marines block the equatorium!"

"Aquatorium," Foxglove whispered correcting her beloved.

"Yeah, right, I confuse them all the time! Me and my partner will be nearby, so shout if anything happens! Alright, let's get to move!"

Dale clapped his hands loudly nudging militia animals who were already eager to enter combat. The rodents and the dog ran along the pier, Dozer flew off to deliver the attack command to the navy, and Foxglove, habitually grasping Dale's collar, flew after the pigeon squadron which was far ahead of them already.

"Why did you called me your partner?" The bat asked.

"Well..." Dale parted his hands, for it is difficult to shrug when somebody is clasping your shoulders. "Maybe because you are my partner—"

"And that's it?" Foxglove grew palpably tensed and the chipmunk glanced down warily. They were flying about as high as five standard containers and the ground was further away than he'd like.

"Of course not!" he answered trying hard to keep his voice from trembling. "You are my close friend and a comrade-in-arms!"

"Comrade..." the chiropteran Rescue Ranger hissed. Her voice sounded harshly and Dale who knew her better than anyone else was aware that it was a very bad sign.

"Listen, Foxy, you've got it all wrong—"

"Sure, of course, it's me who got it all wrong, who else!"

_I've heard that already not too long ago..._ Dale thought.

"Foxy—"

"Do you love me, Dale?"

The chipmunk felt the chills but in his current position he had to go the whole way. "Yes, Foxy, I've told you that already."

"Long ago! Too long ago! The last time was..."

She fell silent, remembering, and Dale knew he had to act fast. He had no idea how, though, but then his recent experience and his acting talent came to the rescue. "Foxy!" he exclaimed so loud as if he cut himself. "You don't believe me? You doubt me? After everything we've been through? No, Foxy, I didn't expect that from you, not from you, never..."

The bat's claws dug into his shoulders, and Dale thought he overdid it and prepared to hit asphalt. Instead he felt a cold metal surface under his feet, and the claws were replaced with rigid but far less sharp wings.

"Dale, Dale, cutie!" Foxglove tugged at him. "Forgive me! I… You're right, I… It won't happen again!"

"No lie?" the chipmunk cheered up immediately.

"No lie!" the bat answered and kissed him so hard he almost fainted. On the other hand, he had reacted this way to all her smooching since recently.

"Alright, Foxy, stop it!" Dale fidgeted, unscrewing himself out of her embrace. "Even pigeons are watching and laughing at us! And we must be examples, not laughingstocks!"

"You're so serious!" Foxglove giggled and tenderly rubbed her face against his nose. "Alright, commander, I'm sorry, I won't embarrass you again!"

"Yeah, it's about time…. I mean, let's go!"

They quickly joined the pigeons spread along the perimeter of this and the neighboring container intently watching Siamese cats wearing richly embroidered kimonos who crawled far beneath. The cats that Rescue Rangers and WaGuS members had previously known only by hearsay but badly wanted to meet. These were no ordinary cats but Gong, Kong and Mahjong — three of the four right paws of the Siamese Twins, the queens of Chinatown animal world themselves. The fourth, Go, stayed back in the Twins' head-laundromat, while these three traveled here, worlds away by the territorial predators' standards, with a very delicate task. They never received any other, though, so when the information about their regular visits to Port Newark reached WaGuS, Dale and Foxglove immediately knew the case was serious and very important.

After many years of exhausting crime fighting the Rescue Rangers managed to put an end to criminal activity of all New York animal mafia kingpins but the Siamese Twins. These likeable sweet-voiced cats who didn't quite talk but sang in unison were very smart, careful and hard pawed. Add to this strict discipline and sincere faithfulness of their minions, and you'll have a mighty and unforgiving adversary. But that wasn't the main issue. The other villains treated those around them, including their kin, as potential victims who can be and should be exploited. So there was no surprise that even cats and rats saluted the Rangers' fight against Fat Cat or Rat Capone who didn't lack cleverness, strength, or cruelty, too.

The Siamese Twins were a different story. They considered all the animals living in Chinatown to be the members of their clan needing not only control but also care, and Chinatown dwellers reciprocated their feelings. Even the rodents treated them as their patrons who maintained order and protected them from outsiders. And they had every reason to feel that way, so any undermining activity in Chinatown was doomed from the start. The Rescue Rangers quickly realized it was fruitless to fight the Twins on their turf and retreated, but kept doing everything they could to prevent the Siamese Twins from expanding their influence beyond their neighborhood borders. Port Newark was clearly too far from it, so the activities of the Triad emissaries must have been investigated and stopped. That was exactly what Dale, Foxglove, and WaGuS have come here for.

"Mister Dale, what are we waiting for?" the leader of the Gold squadron asked informally and even merrily. It was bravado. It was the first time the WaGuS fighters engaged such a serious foe. Dale would behave the same in his place, so he cracked it immediately but didn't let it show.

"When they meet their clients, of course!" he answered in the same manner. It was bravado, too. Dale had encountered a very dangerous enemy and was even in command of fight against her, but the current situation was still giving him thrills. "Since we are here already, we'll take them all by wholesale, right?"

"Right, commander!" the other 'golden' birds replied. Fortunately the cats had turned around the corner already and couldn't hear them.

"Quiet!" Foxglove scolded them, managing to keep her head cool.

"Right!" Dale stopped smiling, frowned, and pressed his finger to his lips. "Don't make noise, or you'll scare away the fish! Okay, 'golden' move along the left side, 'red' move along the right side! Let's go!"

Dale ran along the container's edge on all fours. jumping over narrow openings and negotiating wide ones in Foxglove's paws. Pigeons tried not to fall back, but long rolls tied with coarse threads which every three of them carried constrained their moves and required close coordination of their actions. There were eight such rolls in total, and from above it looked like the cats walking along a narrow canyon are followed by sausages that grew wings.

It was a fairly long trip. With every turn the Siamese Twins' messengers walked slower and glanced around often forcing the birds to stay as far from the corridor as possible. The most dangerous moment came when they reached a wide lane with dock cranes moving along it. But at Foxglove's signal the pigeons synchronously dove into slits between containers and stayed there until the danger of being seen passed. Never noticing they were being followed, the cats went along the passage stretching across the pier which led them to a wide clearing approximately the size of one half of a container.

"Don't you find it strange, Dale?" Foxglove asked pointing at the empty space which didn't match the usual pattern of container placement.

"I do," Dale nodded. "Looks like we found the meeting place! Red-One and Gold-One, surround the clearing, but be very careful! Don't alert them beforehand! Act only on my partner's signal!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Great! Foxy!"

"I'm right here, cutie, stop yelling. When should I signal them?"

"You'll know when you see it. Do you have any plungers with you?"

"Of course I do!" The bat spread her wings. Soon after joining the Rangers she began to wear clothes like the others, and after some time came to wearing jumpsuits similar to Gadget's but without sleeves, filling their pockets and belt with all necessary equipment including regular mini plunger launchers. "Take one!"

"Uh-hu, thanks," Dale braced himself, unfastened one of the launchers with steady hand and quickly hid the trophy under his sweater. "Can you get me on that small ledge unnoticed? But make it quiet! Very quiet!"

"Got it," Foxglove nodded. She grabbed her beloved chipmunk by his shoulders and flew downwards. The indicated ledge was at the very end of the corridor, just ten feet away from the three cats sitting in the center of the clearing. That's why the bat not only had to flap her wings less frequently, but also stopped sending ultrasonic impulses by an act of will, for the cats were able to sense high frequencies and thus could detect her. As a result, she was forced to orientate using only her underdeveloped sight and movements of Dale that grew frantic as they were approaching the ledge, and when he started panicking Foxglove knew they were over the target. She unclasped her feet and flew straight up as Dale ouched barely steadying himself on the ledge.

"Have you heard anything?" Mahjong asked as he turned searching for the source of the strange noise. He was the biggest of the three and of a classic seal point coloration named after seals the skin of which had roughly the same dark-brownish color as cats' dark blots.

"Something creaked, indeed," his lighter, pale magnolia colored colleague Gong said peering into the corridor as well. But Foxglove had already flown away and Dale froze becoming indiscernible from red container covered with patches of rust.

"Strange, I could swear—" Mahjong spoke again. But then rattle came from inside the container in front of them and they turned there. The rattle stopped soon, replaced with creaking of rusty hinges, and a small nondescript door opened in the container wall. Only ten inches high, it was nevertheless large enough for a short grey rat, light-green lizard and enormous mouse even larger than Monterey Jack.

"Capone and his gang," Dale muttered. "Long time no see. I wish it stayed that way..."

The Siamese cats obviously felt the same, but were obliged to show courteousness and bowed politely. Those versed in Eastern etiquette could tell from this gesture alone what the cats really think of the other party and what they wish them, but Capone wasn't one of those and took everything for a face value.

"My compliments to you, too!" he croaked with a smug smile. "I expected you earlier, you know!"

"The path was windy, Capone-xiansheng," Mahjong said softly stepping forward. "We are sorry for making you wait."

"That's very good of you!" the rat mobster grinned spitefully, his overblown ego allowing him to see only what he wanted to. "My waiting costs much, mind you, and I've got lot of things that go worse than the slowest cat."

Sugar Ray giggled unpleasantly. Arnold Mousenegger didn't get the boss' joke as always. "Boss, I think you spoke of the horse in the morning—"

The lizard giggled even more unpleasantly. Capone growled at the strongmouse to make him shut up. Dale covered his mouth with his paw in order not to laugh. The cats pretended they missed the 'delicate' hint.

"Alright, enough of pleasantries!" Capone put his paws on his hips to seem larger and more imposing. "I'll take your excuses into consideration. Show me the goods!"

The tacit leader of the Siamese trio waved his paw to his associates. The other cats quickly unfastened knots on their backs with their teeth and four heavy bags fell on the ground.

"Oh, the music of the paradise!" Capone narrowed his eyes, enraptured by the ring of coins and jewelry. And when the cats opened the bags, he lost his head from the glitter of gold. "Come on, you goons! Bring it here!"

His tongue hanging from his mouth, Arnold ran towards the bags on his arms, like gorilla, but suddenly a thin kimono blocked his way, and the strongmouse flew backwards as if it weren't a thin and gracile paw but a brick wall underneath the silk.

"Not so fast, Capone-xiansheng," Mahjong purred. "It's your turn now."

"Yeah, I remember!" the mobster said, clearly displeased. "Just a simple vigilance checking, so two for flinching for you, as they say, heh-heh. Hey, Arnold! Bring one of them here!"

"Whom, boss?"

"Anyone, dumbhead!"

"Oh, I got it!" Mousenegger uttered in his bass voice and squeezed into the door. He was absent too long even for a complete misfit, and Dale realized that the bandits' hideout was larger than a single container. Where there was Capone, there were always sewers…

Finally Arnold returned, pushing before him a puny mouse of Asian looks wearing seedy clothes. The Chinese rodent grew unaccustomed to sunlight, so he squinted and stopped at the threshold, but the hoodlum jerked him into the air and placed in front of Mahjong. The cat leaned towards the mouse and asked something in Chinese in low voice. At the sound of his native language the Asian perked up and chattered merrily, but Arnold grabbed him by his elbow.

"And now repeat it so that I understood!" he shouted. The rodent shrank into himself.

"Sure, Arnold-xiansheng," Mahjong answered moving his paw in front of Mousenegger. "I hope it's clear enough?"

"S-sure..." Arnold nodded, mesmerized by groomed and sharpened claws appearing from soft pads. This hint was obvious even for him.

"Hey!" Capone shouted at them "Drop this ninja-stuff of yours! I can show many things, too, if need be!"

"I never doubted that," Mahjong said softly, narrowing his eyes. "Moreover, I insist on it. How do you feel about starting with the rest of my masters' subjects?"

"Gold first!" the rat snapped. The cats responded by protracting their claws.

"In that case, simultaneously! And no objections, mind you!" The port mobster wagged his diamond ring at the cats for greater effect. The cats had no objections. All negotiations with Capone progressed in the same way, and every time he presented his concession as his great achievement. The furry Chinese knew the motive of saving face, so they not only understood but welcomed such a behavior. The Siamese Twins dealt with those who didn't value their reputation very quickly.

Sugar Ray stuck his head inside the container, whistled loudly, and barely managed to jump aside giving way to a gush of Asian rodents running outside. They were very poor, had very large families and had very high hopes for a happier life in the heart of the vaunted West which for them began in the port mobsters' hideout. Welcome to the real world, as they say.

Thoroughly counting the rodents crowded behind their backs, Gong and Kong nodded Mahjong, who removed his paw obstructing the way to the bags of gold. Not waiting for command, Mousenegger and Ray ran up to them and quickly retreated behind their savagely grinning boss with the prize.

"Nice to have business with you, gentlemen!"

"Same here, Capone-xiansheng," the cats bowed and turned around to leave.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Capone shouted at them. "Tell the dear Twins that the next batch will cost them twice as much!"

Purple dragons on Mahjong's kimono reared up. That was something new. The cat turned around with deliberate slowness and swept the icy gaze of his sapphire eyes over Capone and his minions. "What is the reason for such an outrageous offer?" he inquired.

"Well, you know," the undersized mobster made a helpless gesture with his arms. "Economic crisis, inflation. uncertain future. Many things. Risk compensation, too."

"Don't you think," Mahjong purred making two steps forward, "that your risk can cost you more than all the gold in the world?"

He stroke a pose which seemed completely unnatural at first glance. But Capone, like every rat, knew perfectly that it meant readiness for deadly leap. He was expecting that. Putting his two fingers into his mouth. he whistled stridently, and hidden hatches opened in surrounding containers letting a pack of large rats out. There were about fifty of them, and in a blink of an eye the clearing was literally swarming with them, and entire pale fence of various but equally sharp and dangerous weapons was aimed at the cats and small rodents snuggling to them.

"So, the Siamese Triplet, what will you say now?" Capone asked with a smirk encircling his horde with his hand. "I have more soldiers, so I'm at command here!"

"It doesn't matter how many soldiers the commander has if he is dead," Mahjong answered impassively. He sat lower and pressed his ears to his head. No matter how fast his leap would be, he wouldn't be able to evade the tips of improvised weapons, so the leap would be his last. It would be Capone's last, too, so it was worth it. In any case, Mahjong, raised according to the principles of Eastern philosophy, preferred dying in combat to retreating and dishonoring his own name and names of his sovereigns. Dale felt that and aimed his plunger launcher. He didn't need to shoot, though, for Rat Capone felt the same. Despite his arrogance and self-assurance, his most developed instinct was self-preservation which allowed him to see the day and was now telling him to back down in order to stay alive and whole.

"Well said, you know!" Capone smiled and clapped three times. Mousenegger applauded, too, with such enthusiasm he almost blew his boss' hat off. Sugar Ray calmed him down with a quick slap of his tail, and Capone was able to continue. "I think you are right! The crisis affects all of us, after all, and you should stick together in hard times, right? In short, I won't raise price for my services. For now. I hope that's clear?"

"It is," Mahjong said as he sat on his rear legs. "A respectable answer of respectable male, Capone-xiansheng, and I will be honored to tell it to my mistresses."

"Right!" the rat nodded. "Tell it! Word for word! And add that if my terms are not accepted, it will be like in that old song: you are in the rat nest now!"

Ignoring the gag, Mahjong bowed almost invisibly and raised. The rats lowered their weapons and Capone turned around to return to his container but stopped without making a step. A sound resembling doves' cooing and flapping of wings came from somewhere above. The mobster threw his head back, but there was nothing but clouds in the square of sky above him.

"I should make less business with Asians and watch less movies by Hong-Kong directors," he muttered closing his eyes and massaging his temples to calm down. It didn't get better, though. On the contrary, the distant noises were replaced with a totally strange sound, much louder and closer. Opening his eyes, Capone discovered a rope stretching right above him, tied to a suction cup stuck to the container wall right above the door. The other end went into the central passage somewhere, but he couldn't see where exactly because his field of view became obscured by a rapidly approaching red-yellow-brown blot. The mobster stepped aside instinctively and the next instant the spot he was previously standing became occupied by the chipmunk whom Capone had been seeing in nightmares and every female he met for quite some time now.

"You again!" Capone shouted.

"Smile!" Dale pulled the ends of his bow tie he wore under his sweater.

The bow clicked and blinding white light hit everybody's eyes. For a couple seconds everybody who looked at it became blind, but one spectator didn't rely on his, or rather, her sight that heavily. Her name was Foxglove, and upon receiving a light signal from her dear chipmunk she spread her wings.

"PISTACHIO!" she shouted about the surroundings. Ultrasonic wave hit the participants of the drama below who felt themselves inside a bucket hit hard with a sledgehammer. The signal reflected from the walls and caused some of them to lose their balance while the rest were completely disoriented. Except Dale who covered his ears beforehand and now whistled a fragment from Wagner's opera as he watched the trios of doves diving on their targets. Unclenching their claws in unison, they dropped the rolls unwinding in midair into wide nets. There were more than enough of them, and the birds used them generously. Three of the nets covered the cats, four enveloped the minion rats and the last one caught Capone's gang.

"Great job!" the Rescue Ranger saluted the climbing doves. "Don't be afraid! You're safe!" he shouted at the frightened migrants. "See?" He pointed at the rats vainly nagging at the nets with their weapons. "It's not a simple net, it's golden, that is, super strong! Nothing can cut it!"

"Except diamonds."

"Well, diamonds can, sure. But they don't have—" Dale stopped and turned at the source of a painfully familiar hoarse voice. Capone, Mousenegger and Sugar Ray stood before him with their arms akimbo and grinning viciously. The most vicious was Capone's left incisive tooth which radiated all the colors of the rainbow for some reason.

"Diamond crown," Capone explained willingly. "Only me and Don Cheeseleone have those!"

"I remember him!" Dale nodded. "We sent him back to Sicily! In a parcel to be called for! Can arrange one for you, too!"

"No, I will arrange one for you! Arnold!"

His shout wasn't finished yet and the strongmouse was already running forward like a cast-iron cannonball. On the one side there was a wall, on the other — a net with rats bristling with blades, and the enemy was just a foot away, so Dale had neither space for maneuver nor time to react to the attack. But Foxglove had both. Diving at the chipmunk with speed and accuracy of a counter-missile, she literally snatched him from under the oversized mouse's nose. Arnold had time to become surprised, but not enough to brake. A dull sound of elastic collision was heard, and a bit flattened Mousenegger spread on the ground in front of an ornate dint which closely reproduced the outlines of his body and face with perfectly preserved expression of genuine astonishment.

"Are you okay, cutie?" Foxglove asked nervously.

"Like Captain Kirk after commanding 'Beam me up, Scottie!'"

"I did my best!" the bat smiled. She watched the entire series with Dale and knew it was a compliment. But there was no time for celebration. "Oh, no! They're getting away!"

Indeed, Capone and his cold blooded associate who barely managed to pull flatly knocked-out Arnold disappeared inside the container.

"After them!" Dale commanded. Foxglove folded her wings and dived down. But they came only half a second late, and the door slammed shut almost hitting Dale's nose.

"Alright! And how does it open?" Dale asked. Getting down on the ground, he came close to the container and studied its surface which had no extra protrusions visible.

"How about asking them?" Foxglove tapped his shoulder with her wing attracting his attention to about a dozen of rats who managed to evade the nets. They had more or less recovered from the flash-and-bang strike and were now approaching them with a clear intent to make them pay for their troubles.

"Sure!" Dale grinned as he looked at his wristwatch.

"I wouldn't say they are willing to cooperate!"

"No problem!" the chipmunk assured her. The bat shuddered instinctively, but Dale's words, in contrast to Gadget's, meant what they should. Next second a dog's babbling was heard from the central passage signaling the main WaGuS forces approaching. The aviation dropped all their bombs, there was no danger to come under friendly net, so rodents lead by Reaves attacked bravely. The labrador took the cats who have almost freed themselves from under the nets by now, while his subordinates charged at the rats. The vastly outnumbered grey bunch dropped their weapons and tailed away. Pushing and squeezing one another, they jammed into a narrow slit leading to the pier edge attempting to flee by swimming away.

But when they got to the pier's edge, they grew deeply discouraged. The water by the pier was covered with WaGuS mini-boats. Made from old hand mixers reconstructing to receive power from lithium-ion batteries, they were moved by their mixing bars turned into propelling plates. By adjusting the angle of the bars using a motorcycle-style handlebar, the driver drove his boat in the needed direction rapidly delivering a pair of marines sitting on its boards to their destination. At the moment every 'walrus', as they were jokingly called by their friends, was holding a long pole hook, ready to catch anyone who dared to jump into the water. And in case there were good swimmers able to dive out of the hooks' reach among the bandits, Fishburn was drifting along the coast. The WaGuS commander doubling as the admiral of its coastal fleet occupied the standard-bearing strike dog-carrier Enterprise, which was just a little smaller than the human water scooter. Actually, it was a water scooter with its hull shortened to five feet, its upper half removed, its handlebar lowered and its engine replaced with that of a powerful motorboat.

"Paws up!"

The rats, crestfallen after seeing all this power, turned around and saw a very serious and angry chipmunk. He held a small gun loaded with a suction cup arrow, but for completely demoralized bandits it looked like a nuclear warhead, so they rose their front paws into the air.

"Great!" Dale slightly lowered another plunger launcher he borrowed from Foxglove. "So, who knows how the door to Capone's lair is opened?"

"From the inside," somebody answered.

"That's what I thought. And how can we get there?"

"What will we get if we tell you?"

"You will get less than if you don't!" Reaves barked from behind Dale's back, his muzzle almost as wide as the passage.

Realizing it was the best they could count upon, the rats nodded. The oldest, the most experienced and battered male from among them pointed to his right. "There's a half-sunken pipe there. We use it to get to the quay."

"What do you need the quay for?" Dale wondered.

"Disco Volante is moored there."

"Disco Volante?" Foxglove asked standing right behind Dale.

"Flying Saucer," Dale translated from Italian and frowned. "Either our good friend is a fan of Dirk Suave movies, too, or it's one of two—"

His intuition proved correct. Everybody heard a loud roar, and a large white-red hydrofoil ship flew from under the pier. One of the WaGuS boats happened to be on her way, and its crew barely had time to jump into the water. Smashing the mixer into bits, Disco Volante careered away, and Foxglove could swear she heard Capone's croaking laughter amongst the engine's rumble.

* 17 *

When Blather arrived at the building of DC's Channel Nine, there was a blue-white helicopter of his studio waiting for him already. Based on his past experience of flying on this and similar Eurocopters, Stan knew it took an hour and a half to fly from New York to Washington, so Jefferson must have sent this helicopter after Stan before calling him up. It was an alarming sign, so during the entire flight usually sociable reporter stared into the window silently letting his imagination to draw sunless prospects.

But soon after reaching New York the clouds began to disperse, driven away by the light of happiness on the faces of his colleagues he met along the way. All of them strived to slap his shoulder or punch him in his belly jokingly and, as if having conspired and learning the same text by heart in advance, told him that his speech was the best they had ever seen on TV, and that Stan truly 'made the feathers fly'. Every time Blather nodded, thanked curtly and told them he was in a hurry, but with each such encounter his shoulders straightened, his step grew firmer, and his smiles became less and less forced. _Maybe it's not that bad as it seemed? Maybe I'm being promoted? I really need salary increase at the moment! A new house, a car loan, additional lessons for the children instead of those they missed, and also—_

"Hey, Stanley! Speak of the devil!"

"Huh? Oh…" the reporter grew so preoccupied with spending his unearned salary he almost collided with Dougherty who crossed his way. "Hello, Henry! How do you do?"

"Oh, stop it, what's there to do?" the evening show host pushed Stan with his elbow as usual, but this time noticeably weaker than he always did, as if afraid of breaking him. "Only pickings remain for us after you!"

"Pickings?" Blazer smiled. "Well, if the man who knows who'll be the next Idol says it…"

Dougherty waved his words off as if they were plague. "Forget about Idols! After your report it's like the century old news! And where do people find sources like that, I wonder."

"I have no idea," Stan answered honestly.

"Yes, sure," Dougherty winked at him knowingly. "Well, I'll be on the lookout than!"

"In that case, aim higher!" Blather pointedly looked at the ceiling symbolizing the distant cloudlands.

"Never offer to teach fish to swim! My aim will be high enough!" Dougherty assured him not missing a chance to impress his famous colleague and friend. "How about one hundred and thirty nine heads of states and governments, huh?"

"And how will you—" Blather was about to ask but then it occurred to him. "The Millennium Summit!"

"Bingo!" Dougherty pointed to 'guns' at him — fists with protruding thumbs and index fingers. "I've already secured both airtime and a dedicated studio right in the UN Headquarters! That's why," he brought his face close to Blather's and whispered insinuatingly and even somewhat menacingly, "I want you to make me a big favor: keep away from there, okay?"

Two days ago Dougherty's voice would have made Blather covered with clammy sweat. But times had changed, and he met the gaze of his reputable colleague with pride.

"Well, if you ask, I'll do what I can. But I can guarantee nothing, you know."

"Try hard, please," Henry whispered, then smiled broadly and said about the entire corridor: "Alright, it was a pleasure talking to you, but I'm in great hurry!"

"Me too," the special reporter answered equally loud.

"Don't doubt it, Stanley! Oh, my condolences about your house! I'm glad your family wasn't hurt, but I know it's still a huge loss. Family nest and all that… Keep your pecker up! Oh, and you said a glorious speech down there! It's… it's just exhilarating! By the way, how about us having some nightfall conversation? Consider it an official invitation! I'm sure you have much to say."

"Oh, I do! Thanks for the invite, I'll definitely think about it! Bye!" Stan shook Dougherty's hand and his friend left quickly. Blather looked after him and hemmed barely audibly but very smugly. He saw that while Dougherty spoke merrily and informally, he was making the best of a bad business. It would take much time for him to come to terms with losing the 'king of the air' status. Blather wasn't worried about that too much, though. Friendship is one think, rating curve is another.

Speaking of ratings…

"Is he available?" he asked Gladys. She nodded without looking away from Solitaire.

"Mister Jefferson, may I?" Stan asked sticking his head in the door which opened when he knocked.

"Stanley!" the news director sitting behind his desk happily lifted his hands. "Hello! At last! Come in! Come in now!"

The window shutters were closed, a single flush-mounted lamp gave too little light, and Stan instinctively reached for the switch but stopped short, for it was not his office after all. But Jefferson said nothing, and the reporter switched the rest of the lamps on. Tobias, having grown accustomed to semi-darkness, squinted his eyes, shook his head and cursed under his breath. Blather stood still on the threshold, afraid to make a move. His suspicions proved true, but he could never imagine it was that bad.

Jefferson was drunk as a skunk. You didn't need to be a great detective to know that, it was enough to take a whiff. Then your eye would catch an almost empty bottle of scotch and a glass stained with amber drops. Tobias' face and posture indicated he was able to stay vertical only because of his armchair's back. Stan had worked under him for a very long time already but he had never seen him like that, neither in hard times nor in his moments of triumph. Even on the Independence Day which for Jefferson was not only a state but also a family and even a personal holiday, he didn't drink that much. He drank very little, actually, confident that only those who didn't care could get drunk. It was a bad, bad sign…

"Stanley! Don't stand on the threshold like some stranger!"

Making sure nobody hid behind the door, Blather stepped inside warily. The thriller he had read once made him think that it wasn't his boss but a disguised killer who played drunk to make the change less obvious. A reasonable variant considering how much they had offended the CIA. That's why the reporter didn't close the door tight but left it slightly ajar. Jefferson's room was soundproof, it would be hard to call for help…

"Stanley, Stanley, Stanley!" Tobias said in a sing-song voice and tried to stand up. Stan could barely stand his helplessness but he didn't rushed to his help. He even made a little step back allowing the news director or whoever took his place to get out of his armchair on his own. The third attempt was successful, and Jefferson, resting his fists against the desk, rose to his feet and waved at the bar behind a darkened glass door. "Pour yourself whatever you like! Be my guest!"

"Any reason for that?" Blather asked warily without moving even for an inch.

"Of course! I never drink without a reason!"

"You never drink at all. I mean, that much—"

"How much?" Tobias lent forward tilting his head to the side questioningly, and Blather regretted mentioning that. It's never a wise thing to convince the drunk that he is drunk, especially if he is your boss.

Fortunately for him, Jefferson answered his own question himself. "If you mean this," he snapped his fingernail against the bottle, "it's nothing. Yeah, it's more than usual, but just a little maybe, and it's not important. Important is, why I told you to come here."

"Why?" Blather asked, although after such an introduction he didn't want to hear it at all.

"First, to tell you that you are the best reporter I have ever worked with! All your broadcasts were good, incisive, emotional! Time after time, time after time! And every time it was something new! Amazing, simply amazing!"

"Thanks, sir…" Blather muttered. He didn't consider his today's interviews extraordinary. His speech was phenomenal, yes, but everything else was a simple routine…

"But that speech of yours — wow!" Jefferson pressed his palm to his chest and rolled his eyes. "It was fantastic! Think about it: they tried to kill him, they blew up his house, and he says: 'I won't back down!' You know, I… I almost cried when I saw that…" Tobias grew emotional and sobbed, and Stan was afraid he would burst into tears this time. It was good that the shutters were closed and nobody could see them.

But Tobias proved you couldn't drink away your caste. He surprisingly quickly subdued his emotions and went on. "You know, as I listened, I felt… Tell me, my boy, what I felt?"

"What you felt?" Blather asked.

"Yes. What I felt?"

"I don't know—"

"You know!" Jefferson shook his fist at his subordinate almost falling down in the process. It would be fun if it weren't so sad. "You know it perfectly! But I'll still say it to you! I felt…" Tobias pointed at the ceiling with his finger. "Pride! Yes, Stanley, pride! For you, for me, for our entire channel! Forget the channel, Stanley! For us all! Now I know for sure that my grandgrandgrandgrandgrandgrand… I lost count… Just a second… But it doesn't matter… In short, old Tomas and his friends didn't do it all for naught! That's it! Well, you get it… You get it, do you?"

"I do, Mister Jefferson."

"Tobias, Stanley! I told you: To-bi-as! Remember?"

"I remember, Mister Tobias."

"Great!" Jefferson lowered his hand and looked at the bottle. "It's worth drinking for that, don't you think?"

"Mister Tobias…"

"You don't think so?" the office owner asked staring at the bottle as if talking to it. "Although, maybe you're right. We'll need our heads clear, we will… You win!" he looked at Blather again and smiled thankfully but at the same time slightly creepy. If somebody illuminated him from below with a flashlight, he would be a copy of Hannibal Lector. "So, as I mentioned already, I was very, very proud of you and I still am. And the directors are very proud of you! Yes, the directors! The CEO called me personally and doted on you! He told me the other companies called him up asking when your WBC contract expires. So don't worry: if anything happens, any other channel will welcome you with open arms!"

"I am not going anywhere, I assure you!" Blather shook his head as his heart sank at these words from his boss.

"Come on, Stanley!" Jefferson's smile grew wider and creepier. "You're talented! You have such prospects before you, such heights… In short, you've overgrown your position! Greatly! Don't steal from yourself!"

"Mister Tobias, I'm fired?"

The news director's smile faded, even feverish sparks in his eyes grew dull.

"Stanley, my boy, you know my feelings towards you…"

"Yes or no?" Blather asked harshly feeling with his skin he wouldn't like the answer.

"Yes."

"But… but why?!" Blather erupted. "I… That's because of… They did it, yes?!"

"Stanley, quieter…" Jefferson asked rubbing his temple.

"Quieter?! There won't be any 'quieter'!" Stan yelled, unable to comprehend anything. There came a careful knock at the door behind him, but he yelled 'Occupied!' and shut it with his heel. "What?! What did they got you with?!"

"With this," Tobias pushed an object lying on the desk in front of him. Blather thought it was a book at first, but it turned out a photo in a wooden frame.

"Who is this?" Blather asked looking at portrait of a dark-skinned youth with beaming smile wearing a white shirt with a large CIA emblem on his chest. It really suited him despite being two sizes larger.

"Samuel Peter Jackson, 24, probation officer of National Clandestine Service," Jefferson stated without a trace of former vulgar prowess, as if he sobered up for a couple of permille. "He worked under his uncle, Leroy Mortimer Jackson, at 1900 Twelfth North-West, Washington, DC."

"1900 Twelfth North-West?" Stan repeated. "That's the blown-up building, right?"

Tobias nodded slowly, keeping his chin pressed to his neck for quite some time. "Exactly."

"So all this wish-wash about Fund for Democracy is just a smoke screen!" Blather brightened. "So Snow was there after all!"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Why? What do you mean! It's just… By the way, where did you get this?"

"They gave it to me."

"Who?"

"Two CIA agents. I don't remember their names."

"Oh my! They admitted their lies themselves! It's a sensation! A bomb!"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAYING THAT!" Jefferson yelled making Blather back away. "A bomb, you say? You must be happy about it! You enjoy bombs and explosions! And the more victims the better, huh?!"

The reporter almost dropped the photo. "What? Excuse me, Mister Tobias, but this is your rule, your school!"

"Mine, you say? No! It's not mine! This is mine!" the news director turned the frame standing on the desk around allowing Blather to see the photo of two people: the older one, Tobias, and a young one whose face carried distinct features of the Jeffersons bloodline.

"My grandson Tommy," Tobias explained not waiting for a question. "He entered the FBI academy this year, to serve his homeland faithfully and loyally. He followed in his father's, my son-in-law's footsteps."

"Mister Tobias—"

"He is twenty five, Stanley," Jefferson pointed at the photo in reporter's hands. "And he was twenty four…"

"Mister Tobias, I understand how you feel, but it wasn't me who killed him!"

"You're right," Jefferson agreed. "I did that."

"You? But—" Blather fell silent watching his boss' trembling fingers open the secret lid and set volume of desk-mounted digital voice recorder loudspeaker to maximum.

"_Good day, Mister Jefferson, it's me again."_

"_And still no name?"_

"_That's inconvenient, I agree, but believe me, it's better for everyone this way…"_

"That's the call you told me about?" Stan asked when the recording ended.

"No, another one. Right before the airing of the show, half an hour or something like that. More than enough time to cancel everything…"

"Cancel?!" Stan grew indignant. "But it's a direct threat, a pressure! We must have aired this recording! My god, we must air it!"

Jefferson laughed bitterly. "Stanley, Stanley… Young, hot-headed, just like me in my youth! Air it… No worries, my boy. They will air it. Everybody, from ATVC and to the end of the alphabet. If we, that is, WBC, don't do our part."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Looks like you didn't pay attention…" Jefferson played the recording again.

"_In that case I inform you that our conversation is being recorded and if a hair falls from my head or the heads of my people, I will—"_

"_Please, Mister Jefferson, don't get hot under your collar. I understand you perfectly and I am recording our conversation, too, to avoid future misreadings or other misunderstandings…"_

Tobias pressed the pause button. "Got it at last?"

"So they are blackmailing us?" Blather reddened. "How dare they! Mister Jefferson, please, put me on air! I'll smash them!"

"Sit down, Stanley," Tobias gestured at the armchair in front of him. "It's a shame you don't want whiskey. Thirty years old, calms down instantly…"

"Mister Jefferson!"

"Stop yelling. Stanley. If don't want to drink, simply say so, why yelling? But still sit down. I insist."

Despite tipsiness, his quiet voice sounded firm and authoritative, so Blather obeyed unwillingly, exhaled loudly and sat into the armchair padded with expensive leather.

"Thank you," Jefferson sat down too and reclined with relief. "I drank too much, indeed, I shouldn't have."

Stan cheered up. Jefferson was recovering little by little, and he could hope this prolonged alcoholic nightmare would soon sink into oblivion.

"Were it as simple as you say, Stanley, then I assure you we wouldn't be talking now. You would be in Washington, and I would stand by this window here and watch Lynda smashing them."

Blather imagined it vividly and couldn't help but smile. Lynda Maguire, regular host of Friday's newscasts, was master of creating image of injured innocence backed by suitable voice and facial expression. She would rile up the audience even better than he could, and after her performance their enemies would be able to do nothing but disappear like dew under the sun.

"Unfortunately," Jefferson made a helpless gesture, "this time it's different. They have not only power, legislation, and terrifying punitive apparatus on their side. This time they have a much more powerful ally. Truth."

"W-what?" Stan choked. "Truth? After all that wool their puppet Coolidge drew over the whole country? Where's the truth in that?!"

"Depends on what 'the truth' means. If it's information that corresponds to reality, then it's as scarce as hen's teeth here. But if taken in, so to speak, universal human sense…" Tobias drew a chippy circle above the table with his hand, by no accident encompassing both photographs. "Not to mention it's a part of the deal."

"Deal?"

"Yes, deal. They conceal that Snow and more than two hundred NCS employees perished in the explosion and don't let this recording out. And we fire you and forget about MAP for a time being. That's it, my boy. But, as the CEO himself told me, they are already queuing to hire you, so you won't have any problems with employment."

"In this case," Blather said through his teeth barely keeping his boiling rage at bay, "tell the CEO and his colleagues to prepare for a multi-million lawsuit! And for my special report at, say, RHOX News, which will tell the audience throughout the country many interesting things! Tell him that!"

Stan rose abruptly and turned to the door.

"Stanley, wait." Tobias called him in a low but commanding voice. Blather stopped reflexively, but then remembered Jefferson wasn't his boss anymore and headed to the door resolutely.

But this short pause allowed the news director to say everything he wanted. "You don't understand, Stanley. That's what they expect you to do."

The former Channel Six reporter froze with his arm on the handle.

"What do you mean?" he asked without turning around.

"That it will destroy you completely, my boy."

"I'm not your boy, sir!" Blather objected not as much angrily as obstinately and even aggrievedly. His phrase really lacked the word 'anymore' he swallowed in the very last moment.

"But you are a boy, Stanley. A boy who sees no further than his nose, punished for breaking a neighbor's window with his slingshot. So he now stands in the corner sniffing and devising the plans of revenge, one more elaborate than another. I was in such situation myself, I know what I'm talking about. And I know it causes more harm than good."

"Stick to the topic, Mister Jefferson." Stan turned around but didn't take his palm off the handle.

"Well, let's stick to the topic," Tobias looked at the bottle but decided to wait a little more. "Do you really think they didn't foresee that? Lawsuit and revenge are the first things anyone who considers himself unjustly fired comes up with. They are ready for it. They are waiting for it. They are waiting for you to be caught on camera to fling all the dirt they have prepared already at you. They want to turn the hero and the symbol of free press into a murderer and betrayer of national interests, casting a shadow over his investigation and his channel as a whole. You can't even imagine how hard their pressure on WBC in the wake of the explosion is! They demand us to uncover our sources, to give all the materials, to publish the refutation! They threaten us with another Tailwind!"

"And if you fire me they'll forget everything, right?"

"Nobody's firing you, Stanley. They just don't prolong your expired contract on your own accord and due to you joining another company. No politics and no criminal. And everybody's happy."

"Especially you, huh?" Blather made a wry face. "You got off easily! Hangover is not the worst option considering it was your idea, your project, your advice, your… your everything!"

"Yes, it was mine," Jefferson nodded. "It's also my last working day on Channel Six. I retire due to health issues. The director has already received my leave notice, I explained him everything, he'll sign it."

Stan froze as if struck by lightning. "Mister Jefferson…"

"Tobias, Stanley. Just Tobias. Forgive me if anything's wrong. I am really proud of you and I envy your future news director. Whoever it is, he will be in good hands. Good luck. Oh, I almost forgot, you're horseless now…" Jefferson pressed an intercom button. "Gladys!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell Frank to get up steam. Stan Blather needs to be driven home."

"Right away, Mister Jefferson!"

"I don't doubt it, Gladys!" Jefferson hung up and looked at his former subordinate. "Sector B, parking place number five."

"Really, Tobias, you shouldn't," Stan tried to object. "I'm not an employee anymore."

"According to the documents, your contract expires at midnight. Just like mine, by the way. So it's nothing unnatural, just an ordinary business trip. Goodbye, Stanley. Maybe we'll meet again, who knows. If you happen to come to Virginia, drop in Monticello, everybody knows it, you can't get lost. If time allows, I'll take you to the lakes, the trout there is unique, you won't find it anywhere else. Well, it's no use planning that ahead. Good luck!"

If Blather knew it was the last time he saw his boss, he would probably behave differently. But he didn't knew that, so he just nodded curtly, said 'Thanks for everything, Tobias,' and left, carefully closing the door behind him. He noticed Jefferson picking the photo of Jackson Junior from the table and reaching for the bottle with another hand. It's much harder to talk to the ghosts when you are sober.

* 18 *

"Where now?" Frank asked stopping at a difficult six-way crossing.

"Straight ahead, always straight ahead," his passenger answered dully and looked to the right along Clinton Avenue. It ran north-west towards his destroyed house, and Blather thought he saw smoke puffs in the distance.

Enemies, enemies everywhere. He was fired, accused in what he considered his heroic deed and duty. His house exploded, and now debilitating police interview was ahead of him. And on top of that his wife's self-sacrifice instinct and love to fellow beings awakened. Jessica Blather, alarmed with her husband vanishing from the air, called when he and Frank were crossing Hudson River and unleashed an avalanche of questions on him. Where is he? Why he is not on TV? Who is that youngster with bad diction? Something happened? Does he need anything? Just one word of his, and they will come! They will abandon everything and come…!

Barely managing to convince his wife to stay where she was, Stan fell back on his seat, exhausted, and wished for the hundredth time he had tasted that elite scotch which would have made collision with a harsh reality much softer. But then he for the hundredth time reassured himself that the drinking time hadn't come yet. His good 'I' offered a wide variety of arguments to support this claim, from general addresses concerning the usefulness of abstention to fairly mundane considerations that it's better to be sober while speaking with the police in order not to blurt out some criminal obscenity.

Maplewood Police Department occupied a new two-storied building, its front facade facing ever-busy Springfield Avenue stretching through the four adjacent towns, and the back overlooking Maplecrest Park, a green, that is, currently yellow-green island in the heart of one- and two-storied America. Crimes of various degree occurred here, but never a terrorist attack, which was the working version of the accident in the reporter's house. That's why all the bureaucrats from the town's municipality to New Jersey's state administration took the investigation under their close supervision, the police was more agitated than usual, and the number of patrol cars on the county roads tripled.

"I can wait you if you want," the driver offered parking in front of the building illuminated with all its lights and buzzing like a bee hive. The federal government representatives were expected to arrive any minute, and the local policemen were running about, questioning, writing reports, in short, doing everything they could to avoid future blame of having underperformed.

"No, thank you, it can take long. Thanks for the lift, Frank!"

"You're welcome, Mister Blather!"

Shaking the hand of his former colleague whose death sentence he just signed with his own hands, Stan got out of the car, took a deep breath of evening coolness and headed towards the police department doors. He knew the MPD officers were friendly but never expected such a reception. They recognized him way before he reached the doors, met him like a dear guest and led him to the needed office almost by the hand.

"Good evening, Mister Blather!" a slab-sided man greeted him. He looked like old Gary Oldman and stood out among his colleagues not only by vertical silver bars on his shirt's sleeves but also his high toil-worn forehead and watchful stare. "Lieutenant Morrison, head of the Homicide Department. You've been a long time coming. When you announced you were going to stay in the capital and continue working, we even formed a special squad to send after you!"

"Well, looks like we missed each other," Blather observed. He could tell much more than that, but currently he wasn't in the mood to jest about efficiency of local police; it probably took them half a day to get permission to work in the capital supervised by the Congress directly. "Homicide Department, you say?"

"At the moment the explosion in your house is considered a murder attempt. Oh, don't stand, sit down please!"

"Are you serious?" Blather wondered sitting down into the offered armchair.

"Very," Morrison confirmed taking a seat behind his desk. "By the way, you performed great! You're holding very nicely!"

"Any reasons for that?" Stan asked ignoring the compliments.

"There are some, but first things first," Lieutenant switched his voice recorder on, spoke a standard introduction about when and where the victim interview was taking place, then put glasses with thick rectangular lenses on and opened a folder in front of him. "So, Mister Blather, patrol officers White and Cheon reported that, according to your words, your house was watched from a blue GMC van. You neighbors, namely Robert and Patricia Sizemore, Adam and Nancy Rochester, and Sol and Gloria Westwood, told the same. Do you confirm their words?"

"I do," Blather nodded.

Morrison turned the page. "Also the aforementioned officers reported you mentioning some object in their presence which you neighbor, Robert Sizemore, noticed yesterday on the bumper of your 1994 Ford Taurus. Is it true?"

"Yes, indeed. Bob thought he saw something on my rear bumper. But we checked, and there was nothing there."

"How do you explain it?"

Stan shrugged. "I can't. I mean, he just saw things! Maybe. And what do you think?"

"You didn't see the broadcasts by your colleagues, I presume," Morrison observed.

"I did, but only in passing."

"Why?"

"Well, I had a job to do— Are you interrogating me?"

"No, just curious," the police officer answered but his eyes revealed he wasn't telling the truth.

"Are you suspecting me of something?"

"I suspect everyone, Mister Blather. Rules are rules."

"Yeah, yeah… No, I understand it could seem that I set it all up to attract attention…"

"Note that it wasn't me who said that," Morrison leaned forward slightly but it was enough for Blather to sense a threat emanated by him.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, do you investigate all your cases like that?" he asked.

"You see, Mister Blather, it's the first time I meet a man who doesn't care at all that his house exploded. I think you'll agree it's at least strange, if not suspicious."

"But I do care!" Blather shouted. He leaned forward, too, showing he's accepting the challenge. "It's a huge loss for me, a great blow and enormous shock! If you saw my speech you should know that!"

"Why didn't you contact us immediately? Didn't the Metropolitan Police Department officers instruct you to do that?"

"Why, they did. The detective who found us, forgot his name, Carver or something, told me to contact Captain Finchley."

"And you?"

"Me? I gathered the press-conference!"

"Why?"

"I thought it's better that way. For ratings."

"For ratings?"

"Yes, for ratings! It's my job, after all! And less work for you, by the way, for I explicitly said I suspected nobody!"

"You chose an interesting way to do it."

"Well, I chose from the options at hand, excuse me!"

"Why weren't your family at home?"

"They left," Blather answered cautiously.

"How long ago?"

"About two weeks."

"Where?"

Blather grew wary. "What do they have to do with this?"

"You tell me."

"I tell you: they have nothing to do with this!"

"I don't think so," the detective leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest. "Too many coincidences. And their departure looks like not as much a trip as a planned evacuation for me…"

The reporter sniveled. "It was evacuation!"

"Really? Why?"

"Because," Stan started heating up, "I was afraid for their lives! And I was right, as it turned out! Any more questions?"

"If you were afraid for their lives, why didn't you come to us?"

This time Blather couldn't help but laugh. "To you? Have you seen my show at all?!"

"Missed it, unfortunately. I saw it on tape delay."

"And you ask me why I evacuated my family and why I didn't come to you?!"

The two men drilled each other with unblinking stares for some time. The policeman gave up first. "Well, Mister Blather," he said smiling widely, "congratulations, you passed the adequacy test. Surely nobody truly suspects you, you just behaved a little strange so I had to check everything. I'm sorry if my questions offended you, but rules are rules."

"Nice rules…" Blather muttered catching his breath and loosening his collar. "Although, detective, I understand you full well…"

"Jim."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my name."

"Oh, nice to meet you!" Blather shook the investigator's hand again. "And I'm Stan! Although you know that already…"

"I do, Stan. Coffee?"

"Thanks you."

"'Thank you, yes' or 'Thank you, no'?"

"Yes. Thank you, yes. Two spoons of coffee, one of sugar."

Having exploited the coffee maker, Morrison returned to the desk with two cups and took another folder from a drawer signed 'Examination results'. "So, Stan, what do you know already?"

"Very little. I saw the very first report only, and then I got too busy. It's hard to win forty two percent back—"

"Forty two percent?" Lieutenant didn't quite get it.

"Oh, sorry, just a figure of speech, forget it. So what about my house?"

"As for your house, we've got this." Morrison took out several photos from the folder and lay them on the table. "The cause of the explosion is being determined, but it's already clear that the main flashpoint was in the garage."

"The garage, after all…"

"Yes. That's why that bomb scare really caught our attention. Are you sure there was nothing like that?"

"Well, I searched the whole garage."

"And you found nothing suspicious? No unfamiliar items, extra parts? Cans that hadn't been there before?"

"No, nothing like that! Although… I'm not sure whether it's important…"

"Spell it out," Lieutenant encouraged him and tightened. Often phrases like that precede really important information.

"Well, when I examined the garage, I noticed the closet door was ajar. Although I'm sure I locked it."

"What was kept there?"

"Gardening tools. lawnmower—"

"Gas-powered?"

"No, electric."

"That's important." Morrison wrote something down on one of the paper sheets. "Any flammable materials? Paint, varnish, solvents…"

"No, all of those were in the garage."

"Okay, let's suppose they were. Where the closet door opened?"

"Into the garage."

"Which side the handle was?"

"On the right."

"When entering or exiting?"

"Uhm, entering."

"Did you enter there yesterday?"

"Yes. There was nobody there."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, it's very small, there's nowhere to hide."

"What then?"

"I locked it."

"Where do you keep the key?"

"On the stand's top shelf. It can be seen from the floor, you should reach out for it."

Morrison hemmed contritely. "It's not the best hiding place, Mister Blather."

"Well, it's not a weapon closet—"

"Now that you mentioned it! Do you have weapons?"

"No. I don't like weapons!"

"I see," the head of the Homicide Department made another note. "As far as I know, this morning you left in your channel's car, didn't you?"

Blather thought for a second but decided not to tell about his dismissal. If Jefferson were right, it was better to keep mum about it. And his contract was formally valid at the moment.

"I did."

"And you left your Ford in the garage, right?"

"Right."

"How many cars do you have?"

"Two. My wife took the other one."

Morrison switched the voice recorder off. "Off the record. Actually it's not a wise decision."

"Meaning?"

"Well, if your wife and children are in hiding, their car can give them away."

Stan almost fell from his chair. "Ohmigosh, I never thought… What should I do?!"

"Well, if I were you, I'd call your wife and told her not to use the car. She should put it in some garage or even get rid of it."

"Get rid of it? You mean, destroy it?"

"That's an option. Or she can leave it somewhere on the street with keys in ignition and its windows open. It will vanish after an hour or so."

"Thanks, Jim! I'm speechless…"

Morrison winked at the reporter. "Of course, it's strictly between you and me, for, truth be told, I have no right to give such advice. But in small towns like ours everybody should stick together and help each other out, don't you agree?"

"Yes, yes, of course! I… I need to make a phone call…" Stan shoved his hand into his pocket to get his phone, but the policeman stopped him.

"You'd better take mine," he said handing the reporter a weighty battered cell phone. "In case your calls are being monitored. Erase the number when you finish."

"Yes, sure! Right! Of course!" Blather was so thankful he literally clawed at the offered phone. He rapidly dialed the number, covering the keyboard with another hand and turning his back to the window for additional safety, and sweated twice waiting for the answer.

The beginning of the conversation bode no peace, though. He was forced once again to answer the questions 'where?', 'why?', 'what for?', and 'so we're coming, right?', but this time in the reversed order. When he said he was at the police station, Jessica gasped loudly. Her husband thought she lost consciousness, but instead of the sound of the falling body he heard a question asked in calm business-like manner: 'What do you want me to do?' And when he explained he wasn't arrested and they just interviewed him as a victim, she was so glad she didn't even ask what was the sacred meaning of getting rid of their car. She just promised to do it tomorrow morning and added she loved, kissed, and waited to see him again. Stan told her the same and returned the phone to its owner with huge thanks and deleted outcoming calls list.

"You are welcome, Mister Blather," Morrison said putting the phone away and picking the voice recorder up again. "Or maybe you need to take a break? More coffee, maybe?"

"No, thanks! I'm fine!"

"Good," the policeman switched the recorder on and resumed the interview. "Tell me where was your Ford parked?"

'On its place.'

"Where was its place?"

"On the left. I mean, closer to the rest of the house."

"Did you drive into the garage head in or backwards?"

"Head in."

"You left the key in the car or took it with you?"

"Took it with me, of course! I keep it on the same ring as the rest."

"Did you apply the parking brake when you left?"

"Sure! I always park by all the rules!"

"Even in your own garage?"

"Yes."

"Good on you. How did you park?"

"Well, by the manual."

"Please, describe the process step by step, omitting nothing."

"Okay, I'll try. So, I stopped. Then I switched to neutral—"

"What about the brakes?"

"Brakes? Oh, yeah, I kept my foot on the brake pedal the entire time, of course! My right foot. Then I pressed the parking brake pedal with my left foot. What's next? Ah, released the common brakes…" Blather called his muscular memory to the rescue and began to move his arms pretending he was parking in order not to forget anything. "Made sure the car wasn't moving. Changed into parking gear. Switched the engine off. Removed the key. Opened the door. Exited the car—"

"Thank you, that will do it. Are you sure you did everything?"

"Absolutely!"

"After all the nerves and emotions of the nation-wide live air? Maybe you didn't do something? Forgot? Thought it was alright?"

"No, Jim, I never allow it myself!"

"Good on you," Morrison repeated, although the reporters words disappointed him. He expected the victim's interview to clear everything up, but ended up with another difficult puzzle instead. "Was your car in good condition? When was the last time it passed a check-up?"

"About a month ago."

"Results?"

"My mechanic said everything was fine, that the car was like new."

"Where do you make repairs?"

"At Osgood's. It's in—"

"Millburn," the policeman finished for him. "Great place. I repair there myself."

"Really?" Blather perked up. "It's a small world, indeed."

"And good mechanics are very rare!" the detective added with a smile. "Any complaints on engine or brakes?"

"No, nothing! Like clockwork! Something happened to it? Apart from burning down, that is."

Morrison frowned. "Wait a second, Stan. You said you watched the report about your house."

"Only the very first one, and not for too long. I saw it burnt down completely and left."

"So you didn't see our car?"

"No, but it was in garage, and I knew it burnt down."

"That's the point, Stan," Lieutenant said slowly. "It didn't burn down."

"Really?" Blather stuttered. "But… But how…"

Without a word, Morrison handed him one of the photos. The car depicted on it had its windows and headlights shattered, the forward bumper torn off, and the hood dented. But the reporter recognized his Taurus instantly. "Where is it?!"

"On the road in front of your house. When we found it, its engine was on, and it was switched into the rear gear."

"Engine on? Rear gear? Oh my…"

"Exactly. That's why I asked you how you parked it… Excuse me," he picked up the ringing phone. "Lieutenant Morrison. …Understood, sir. …Yes, I'm coming!"

"You're leaving?" Blather grew agitated. "But we haven't finished with my car yet…"

Lieutenant made a wry mouth. "Others will finish it now."

"Who?"

"The Feds, who else? They came to take the case. And you, as far as I understand."

"So I should go with you?" Stan rose up from his chair.

"No-no, that's unnecessary," Morrison stopped him as he scooped the photos and papers up from his desk. "Stay here, we'll come after you."

Morrison left with folders tucked under his arm and the voice recorder inside his pocket. Alone, Blather sat for some time looking about the room's furnishing, then massaged his worn out ankles, rose and began studying the photographs and commendations on the walls. He was doing just that when two equally serious men came wearing equally unremarkable business suits.

"Special Agent Smith," the one who entered first introduced himself waving a small black ID book with a large glittering badge in front of Stan's face. "And this is Special Agent Johnson. United States Secret Service."

Blather blinked. "Secret Service? But Lieutenant Morrison said— Where is he, by the way?"

"He's filling the papers," Smith answered cheerfully. "So what did he say?"

"That the FBI came after me."

"He must have got it wrong."

"But doesn't the FBI investigates such cases?"

"Generally, yes." Johnson explained eagerly. "But since the people who attempted to assassinate the President are involved, the case was transferred to us."

Stan was stunned. "You mean the Black Table? You think they—"

"Everything's possible. That's why we can't do without you, you know."

"But what about the case files?" Blather asked, surprised with agents coming empty-handed.

"I see you're a knowledgeable guy!" Smith smiled warmly. "Sure we take all the materials, too. But not all the tests are ready yet, so they will send them to us later. So, let's go?"

"Where?"

"First to our Newark office, and then we'll see. Maybe we'll get to the White House, who knows?" Smith winked at the reporter merrily.

"Let's go, then!" Stan agreed eagerly. He had no more doubts left. These two were open, friendly and didn't look like terrorists at all. And what sane terrorist would come to the police station? The highway was another matter, though…

"Don't we need an escort?" Blather inquired who almost had to run to keep up with the agents' wide stroll.

"What for? We're only eight miles away," Johnson reassured him and slapped a bulge on his jacket. "And we're both armed."

"Oh, that's good!" Blather cheered up and asked no more questions.

In contrast, the two FBI agents who came with Morrison to his office had many various questions at once. "So, where he is?" the older, blonder and more authoritative of them asked.

"I have no idea, Agent Berg," Lieutenant looked around, bewildered. "He was here just a minute ago…" He leant out into the corridor and shouted to a sergeant exiting the WC. "Mark, is Stan Blather there?"

"No, Jim! He left!"

"Left?! Where?!"

"There," Mark waved in the direction of the staircase. "The Feds took him away!"

"The Feds?" Morrison asked again.

"Yeah! Two guys in suits!"

"How long ago?"

"Ten minutes or so."

"Thanks…" Lieutenant closed the door and turned to his guests. "How many people are with you?"

"Only me and Agent Sanchez here," Berg answered. "Problems?"

"I think, yes…" Morrison ran up to his table, took out a voice recorder from under the tabletop and played the next to last recording.

"_Special Agent Smith. And this is Special Agent Johnson. United States Secret Service."_

"_Secret Service? But Lieutenant Morrison said— Where is he, by the way?"_

"_He's filling the papers. So what did he say?"_

"_That the FBI came after me."_

"_He must have got it wrong."_

"_But doesn't the FBI investigates such cases?"_

"_Generally, yes. But since the people who attempted to assassinate the President are involved, the case was transferred to us…"_

"Lies!" Sanchez grew infuriated. "Yes, we conduct parallel investigations, but the FBI agent Coolidge is still the Officer-In-Charge!"

"I see…" Morrison listened till Smith's promise to take Blather to the White House, then grabbed his phone receiver and feverishly tapped the needed number on the keyboard. "Operator? Connect me with Secret Service field office in Newark, it's urgent! Yes, Newark, New Jersey! …Good evening! Secret Service Newark office? This is Lieutenant Morrison, Maplewood Police Department, New Jersey. Was a man named Stan Blather brought to you? No. Tell me, do you have agents Smith and Johnson among your personnel? No?! Thanks, that will be it!"

Lieutenant clicked the cradle and dialed another number. "Captain? Morrison here. We've got a hostage situation…"

* 19 *

Dale acted as the situation demanded, that is, fast and furiously.

"Reaves, you and others guard the prisoners! Dozer! Dozer! Where's this snoop when you need him?!"

"I'm here!" the slate-grey bird said flying down from the container.

"Take me to the mothership!"

Dozer turned his head. "Where's that?"

"To Fishburn!" the chipmunk restated the problem. "Quick!"

"Mister Dale! Mister Dale!" nimble Mouse howled as he scampered through the ranks of his brethrens. "Take me with you! Please!"

Dale looked at the youth burning with desire to make up for his yesterday's behavior and decided to give him a chance. "Alright, hop in… Foxy, where're you going?"

"What do you mean?" the bat asked. "With you!"

"No-no, you're staying here!"

"Why's that?!"

"Because nobody else can lead the search team!" Dale explained. "There're still can be slaves on the Capone's base!"

"We had no slaves!" the rat leader protested.

"Secret stashes with stolen valuables then!"

"We had none of those!"

"Then those stashes are very well hidden!" Dale insisted. "That's why we need to check it! So, Foxy, you're the leader here! Dozer, go!"

Perplexed Foxglove saw the trio off, but then she caught expectant glances of her subordinates and realized it was time not to question herself but to lead and command. Fishburn thought the same, and as soon as Dozer and his passengers landed on his wide back he pulled the starter cable with his rear leg and put his forward legs on the handlebars turning Enterprise along a foamy trace left behind by Capone's yacht.

"They're getting away! Getting away!" Mouse screeched pointing at the ship darting towards the harbor exit.

"They won't!" Dale calmed him down. "Enter's engine is three times more powerful!"

"Really?" the mouse's eyes became round of surprise and amazement. "How do you know?"

"From Schwarz!" Dale answered. "The same model was stolen from their Manhattan shop last month! Me and my friends searched for it everywhere, looked through the entire New York sewers! And here she is! Learn while I'm alive how to find things!"

Such an exhaustive answer rose Dale's standing in Mouse's eyes to an all-time high. Moreover, the little mouse was so inspired that he dared to stand up and shout at Disco: "We will get you!"

He shook his fist at Capone and his goons unsteadily and grabbed Fishburn with all his limbs again. That is, he grabbed Fishburn's sweater which was absolutely necessary because the bay waters were calm and visibility was perfect. It allowed the WaGuS members to stay on their target but at the same time it meant they could be seen from a furlong away. That's why Fishburn was wearing blue human sweater, red wool cap and large swimming goggles. They couldn't prevent him from being seen but allowed to hope that an accidental witness would take him for a diminutive fan of some extreme prone variant of water motor racing. This camouflage was far from perfect, but it worked, deceiving the profanes and providing additional psychological pressure on their enemies.

"Boss! Boss!" Arnold screamed scarcely jumping up and dabbing his hand at the pursuers. "They are catching up! Catching up!"

"I can see it myself you boor!" Capone said. "Come on, Ray, press it on!"

"I'm pressing!" the lizard responded.

"You're pressing badly!"

"I'm pressing as I can! If only that heffalump stopped rocking the boat…"

"Oh! I've got an idea!" the rat exclaimed and, without thanking his minion for a clue which he never did, turned to his resident heavyweight. "Arnie, you press it!"

Mousenegger obediently stomped to the console and pressed the pedal. Disco moved faster indeed, while Sugar Ray screamed: "ARGH! Leg! My leg! Let my leg go, you idiot!"

The strongmouse didn't bulge. "I know nothing. The boss said to press it!"

"Right, Arnie!" Capone confirmed as he rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Keep it up! Ray, you were saying something?"

"The leg, sir! My leg—"

"Sorry, no time for that at the moment! If it's that bad, you may throw it off, I allow that."

"Throw it off? How?!"

"You ask me? You're a lizard or what?"

"We can throw off only our tails—"

"Then shut up and drive! And watch the road!"

The latter command was really useful. Disco Volante stood up to her name for all available percents, rising even higher on her airfoils and flying above the bay's surface only occasionally touching the crests of waves risen by passing ships with her bottom. But powerful Enterprise continued to catch up with her, albeit slower than Dale would like.

"They try to get to Kill van Kull!" Fishburn realized. "There are many places to hide there!"

Indeed, Disco was turning to the right, clearly aiming at the narrow tidal strait just a thousand feet wide which separated Bayonne, New Jersey from New York's Staten Island. Capone reasonably hoped to get lost there among numerous piers and various ships swarming among them. All the calculations showed that his opponents would catch up before he reached it, though, but a quick glance about the waters allowed the cunning rat to see the way out, and he waved his hands shouting something to his minions. Engine's roar and distance prevented Dale from hearing him but he immediately knew the bandit came up with something naughty.

"Come on, Morpheus! Come on!" he ushered the Newfoundland. "Oh, I mean, Fishburn!" he quickly corrected himself under three questioning stares. "The chase is rubbing onto me, you know… Alright, let's swim over it!"

His words almost became prophetic as Disco suddenly turned left. If it weren't for Fishburn's quick reaction, they would part for a whole cable length. But simultaneous turn of the handle and the engine allowed Enterprise to turn around on the spot and resume the chase in northern direction, towards Hackensack River's mouth. There was a lot of traffic there, too, but much less than in Kill Van Kull, which gave more freedom of movement and decreased Disco's chances of getting away from a more powerful pursuer with higher speed and larger tank capacity. Dale, having a rich history of fighting against the rat bandit, was the first to sense something fishy.

"Something's wrong!" he shouted right into Fishburn's ear. "We'll catch him easily this way! He must know it!"

"Everybody make mistakes sooner or later," the Newfoundland observed thoughtfully.

"Except you, Mister Dale!" Mouse added instantly.

"I wish…" Dale grumbled but quickly regained his temper. "That's not the case!" he added louder for everyone to hear. "Sure, Capone's a criminal and a hustler, but he's not an idiot! He must have a plan!"

"How about a dredger?" Dozer asked pointing somewhere past the chased ship with his wing. Dale didn't get it at once but then he realized that the formation he mistook for a part of the shoreline was in fact a dredger ship. There were some similarities, indeed, for it wasn't just some dredge ship but New Jersey, one of the largest scooping dredgers in the world. This 200-feet monstrosity worked in the bay day and night constantly deepening and widening the navigable passage. She had just finished her work on the northern section and was being slowly and poisedly towed south, to Shooters Island, in order to change her crew, refuel her excavator, and then start the next stage of fighting sand and mire.

"We should slow down or we'll run into it," Fishburn said.

"No-no-no!" Dale protested. "We can't let them go too far away!"

"We won't!" Newfoundland assured him turning the handle to the left. "Let me drive around the dredger and—"

"STOP!" Dale screamed. "I got it! That's what he wants!"

"What?"

"To make us drive around the dredge! He'll gain two hundred feet by doing it, and that would be enough for him to get to Kill Van Kull!"

"What do you propose, Mister Dale?"

"Grab them now!"

The experienced dog shook his head. "Impossible!"

"Why?"

"We won't make it."

"And him?" the Rescue Ranger asked, already devising a desperate and reckless plan.

"He will. Barely, but he'll make it."

"Barely? That's good! They'll stop and we'll get them!"

"And if they don't stop?" Dozer asked.

"They will, they surely will! I would definitely stop after this to catch my breath, and they will, too! Isn't it logical? Exactly! Okay, Dozer, hold me!"

"How?"

"Tenderly! Morph— I mean, Fish! On my command turn sharply to the left! Very sharply! Then we'll fly over the dredger!"

"If we miss the excavator," the dove mumbled pessimistically.

"Do your best!" Dale told him. He knew it was a risky feat, but he decided that if Gadget did it with that toy hopper, they would, too.

"And what should I do, Mister Dale?" Mouse asked, insulted by lack of attention.

"Be on standby! Dozer will return for you if need be! Alright, that's it! Get ready!"

Just as expected, Disco swam right under New Jersey's nose. Arnold cheered, and Sugar Ray seized the opportunity to push him off the pedal.

"Idiot! Fool! Fleabrains!" he cursed Mousenegger under his breath rubbing his flattened foot.

"Stop whimpering!" Capone interrupted his lamentation. "I don't remember telling you to stop! Move on! Move on!"

"But, boss," Mousenegger pointed at the giant dredger's side separating them from the pursuers. "We got rid of them…"

"Yes, boss!" the lizard joined in. "They were probably crushed!"

"GANGWAY!"

Arnold looked down, bewildered. "What gang way, boss?"

"Idiots!" Capone yelled. "It wasn't me! It's—"

He was cut short by Dale falling on his head.

* 20 *

By the time the police examined security cameras recordings and determined that Blather was driven away in white Ford Crown Victoria with NYC license plate, the Ford in question exited bustling Springfield Avenue and drove deep into South Newark.

"How far is it?" Stan asked looking around. Agents told him to sit on the front passenger seat and he had to turn back and forth to address them both.

"Not too far," 'Johnson' said from behind the wheel. "Four more blocks."

"A strange place for Secret Service office," Blather pointed at the rows of empty buildings behind the window. The situation improved greatly since 1990s, but the 'middle ages' of 70s and 80s still reminded of themselves by whole blocks of desolation which contrasted sharply with neon-illuminated downtown.

"The rent is lower here," 'Smith' came up with a witty answer. "Crisis, funds are cut on all the articles— What?" he asked the driver who burst into giggle.

"Nothing," 'Johnson' said, barely holding his laughter at bay. "Remembered an old joke, that's all… Hey, Brad, there's some dirt stuck to the windshield. Can you rub it away?"

"Sure!" 'Smith' agreed eagerly and, as his partner parked the car, took a large piece of cotton-wool and a bottle from the medkit under the rear window.

"What's that?" Blather asked wincing at ethereous smell.

"Glass cleaner."

"In a medkit?"

"Well, you won't keep it in a glove compartment, right?"

"Yeah, right… Do we really need to stop here?" Blather shuddered as he hauntedly stared into the darkness looking for trouble. The crime rate decreased in recent years, but the street gangs living on robberies or mugging were still there making Newark one of the twenty most dangerous cities in the US.

"Don't worry, we'll fight back," 'Johnson' slapped his shoulder holster again. Meanwhile his partner got out of the car and opened Stan's door.

"It's easier that way," he explained with a smile. Blather didn't have time to nod instinctively as the driver grabbed his wrists and 'Smith' pressed the wool to his face. The reporter thrashed but the criminals and a safety belt held him fast, and the wool was richly soaked with chloroform, so his fight lasted no more than twenty seconds.

"Well, it went nice!" 'Smith' observed when they placed their unconscious victim on the back seat. "I worried that the Feds would cause problems."

"But they even helped us instead! What an irony…"

"Yeah!" Pete nodded at Stan. "Shouldn't we finish him now?"

"You scare me, Petey! Why so bloodthirsty?"

"No bloodthirst! I just don't want to leave anything to chance after that encounter with rodents!"

"You mean that car? It was just thrown out of the garage by explosion. No big deal!"

"Consider me a paranoiac, but I'm positive they did it."

Brad deeply inhaled for another chastening speech, but the radio tuned to police frequency came to life.

"_All squads! Ten-ninety nine! Ford Crown Victoria, latest model, white, New York City license. Two suspects: male, Caucasian, average height, pose as Secret Service agents. The suspects are supposedly armed and very dangerous. Can have hostage with them: Stanley Roderick Blather, male, Caucasian…"_

"Looks like they're speaking of us!" Pete commented. "I wonder how they knew about Secret Service?"

"It doesn't matter anymore," Brad dismissed him. "Let's go, time to get rid of the load."

"So maybe we'd better…" Pete pointed at Blather again.

"Orders were clear: there must be water in his lungs!"

"I remember, but—"

"No 'buts'! Enough of that! We've wasted too much time already!"

Pete didn't argue with that. Without saying any more words, the killers got in the car and drove north, to the looming Pulaski Skyway connecting Newark with Jersey-City.

* 21 *

Fishburn didn't even try to repeat Disco's feat and run in front of the dredger. About a dozen feet from New Jersey's board lined with tyres he turned the handlebar and the engine as far to the right as he could. Dozer and Dale had released his sweater beforehand and flew into the air. The dove beat his wings trying to decrease their speed, succeeding only partially, and they whizzed through the air like a silver bullet barely missing the excavator boom and braking on the other side above the water.

"There they are!" the chipmunk pointed at the red-white ellipse underneath them. "I told they'd stop! Drop me!"

Dozer folded his wings and entered a steep dive which ended with Dale's signature yell and his landing right on the rat mafioso's hat. There was no lane for the dove so he flew in circle to make another approach attempt.

"Nobody moves! You're surrounded! Paws up!" Dale ordered threateningly rolling up on his feet.

Ray and Mousenegger didn't expect that and were completely at a loss. Dozer turned around and was about to grab them. But, unfortunately for him and Dale, Capone was brighter than his minions.

"PRESS ON, IDIOTS, PRESS ON!" he shouted from the floor.

If he had said something like 'full ahead!' Arnold would have spent precious seconds wondering what that was, where it was and how you could eat it instead of executing the already familiar command. This time Sugar Ray waited prudently for the strongmouse's foot to step on the pedal and only then stepped on it himself.

Mousenegger was about to yell but the boat dashed forward and he had to grab something to stay upright. This 'something' turned out to be Ray who, fortunately for them both, found more suitable prop in the form of the helm. Capone spread-eagled on the floor and slid backwards only slightly. But Dale didn't have time to assess the situation and fell from the upper deck hitting his head hard. Dozer, his body already tilted back and his claws outstretched, had to exert much efforts to avoid hitting water and fly after the boat. Enterprise, which drove around the dredger's stern, was running to head Disco off from the other side, but even under the most favorable conditions Dale could help in two minutes at the very least. And when you are one against three and knocked out, it seems like forever.

"Keep it this way! Don't turn!" Capone shouted rising to his feet and descending to the lower deck with extraordinary speed for his constitution. Considering his subordinates' character, it wasn't really smart and far-sighted to issue such an order, but he was too preoccupied with dealing with the hated crime-fighter at the moment. Sure he could order Arnold to do it, but he had understood a long time ago that if you want something done you should do it yourself.

"This was your last flight, nut-eater!" he said menacingly addressing the Rescue Ranger who showed no signs of life. "Now it's time for your last swim! This time I'll surely feed you to the fish!"

Taking one of gilded forks that decorated the lower deck entrance off the wall, he stood over Dale, wished him 'Bon appétit!' and slammed it down so hard its teeth went deep into the deck. But Dale wasn't there anymore. He rolled aside at the very last moment and now stood in front of Capone with happy but very unkind smile.

"Hi!" he saluted the rat and grabbed the ends of his bow tie. "Smile!"

Capone, already familiar with the spy flash, squeezed his eyes shut instinctively, but instead of light stroke he received a well-practiced left hook to the jaw and flew to the lower deck entrance almost hitting the second fork with his head.

"That's for slapping Gadget," Dale explained cracking his knuckles.

"You're finished…" Capone hissed moving his jaw, then jumped up on his feet and reached for the weapon. But this time Dale was faster than him, too. Applying a maneuver familiar to every cartoon boxer, he used elastic weatherboard like a ballista bowstring and flew forward yelling 'Pistachio!' His extended fist hit the bandit's nose making him crushing through the door and fly across the entire mess room gathering all the furniture on his way with his body and the door torn from its hinges.

"And this is for putting her into a cheese-cutter!" the chipmunk stated into the darkness. The darkness responded with a loud rumble. Dale mockingly put his paw to his ear. "Huh? Sorry, I didn't hear you!"

"Oh, you'll hear it now!" a hoarse voice from above assured him and Dale found himself enveloped by long green hose which turned out to be a tail of a reptile, namely Sugar Ray. "I caught him, boss!"

"Great! Hold him steadily!" Capone shouted from the depth of the boat and went back. Soon he came out of the door with a broken table leg in his hand and a sickeningly sweet smile on his face so densely covered with galls and bruises it would make even Joker envious. "Why so bulging eyes?" he asked Dale puffed from pressure. "Can't breathe, huh? Don't worry, I'll make a couple of new holes in you, it would make things easier!"

Grabbing the table leg more suitably, Capone shoved its broken end into the Ranger's face. Turned out, Dale expected just that. Exhaling loudly and enfeebling the muscles he tensed in advance, Dale slid from the ring which suddenly became too wide for him, and the rat missed again. Well, almost.

"ARGH!" Ray yelled as a number of splinters went past his scales and into his tender skin. He jerked his tale yanking the weapon off his boss' hands.

"What? How?" startled and disarmed Capone mumbled.

"It's called combo!" Dale explained, then stepped on the mobster's foot and delivered a crushing uppercut. The rat wearing just one boot now flew into the air, hit his head against the upper deck's protruding canopy and fell on the deck in a heap.

"Fy fown…" he lisped rubbing the back of his head, his chin and his foot at once.

"What?" This time Dale was genuinely confused. But then he noticed a small thing lying on the floor and shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow even in twilight. "Ah, it's your tooth! Let's consider it a payment for your 'Bon appétit'!"

"You too!" Sugar Ray drew attention to himself again. This time he abstained from grabbing Dale with his tail and simply slapped him with it. The slap proved very effective, and Dale would have surely fallen into the water if he hadn't grabbed the weatherboard with his paws at the very last moment.

"Hit 'im, Fay! Hit 'im!" Capone cheered. The lizard grew bold and jumped down to finish the insulter. Using his tail as a whip, he started hitting the washboard aiming at Dale's fingers. For a few long seconds Dale managed to evade the blows but finally one of them hit the mark and Dale hung on his one hand just a few inches away from the water rushing under the boat.

"Four little Soldier Boys going out to sea; a red herring swallowed one and then there were three," the lizard giggled nastily prying up Dale's fingers in rhythm with the famous children's counting out rhyme. "Three little Soldier Boys walking in the zoo; a big—"

"Fence hugged one!" Dale shouted as his legs finally found a seam between two halves of the plastic hull. With his legs having firm ground, Dale burst into action, namely took the lower washboard's rope with his left hand, caught the tip of his enemy's tail with his right hand, then put the lower rope over the middle one he was previously holding onto, shove the tail between the ropes and let the lower, that is, upper rope, go.

"ARGH!" Ray yelled one more time and tried to free himself. But two flexible ropes held his tail fast, so he threw the tail off so as not to waste any time and tried to catch Dale climbing back on the deck with his short but viselike arms. He managed to grab Dale by his sweater, but Dale stepped on his foot previously stomped by Mousenegger. Sugar Ray let the chipmunk go, and Dale grabbed Capone's hat from the floor and jumped on the upper deck he had left so dramatically.

"Stop the engine!" he ordered Arnold rising his trophy above his head. "See? Your boss is defeated! Give up while you still can!"

"The boss' hat?! Nobody is allowed to touch the boss' hat!" Arnold responded supplementing his words with the heaviest thing he spied, which was the helm. Sure, Dale didn't expect Mousenegger to fall to his knees like the Indian tribe before Indiana Jones holding their idol, but he didn't expect such a reaction either. On the other hand, he fulfilled his long-time dream to repeat the Neo's bullet-dodging move and fell on his back. The helm missed his nose by a very small margin and flew away far behind the stern.

"Is that everything you've got?" Dale chuckled despisingly as he rose to his feet.

Of course it wasn't, and the strongmouse could demonstrate many bodychecks. But all of them required approaching his enemy and Arnold who had been ordered to keep pressing the pedal couldn't do that. So he inhaled deeply and yelled: "BOSS! RAY! COME HERE! HE'S GOT THE HAT! THE HAT!"

"Forfet da hat!" Capone slurred as he negotiated the stairs using the fork like a crutch.

"Yeah!" Sugar Ray agreed climbing along the opposite wall. He armed himself with a boat-hook, toy-sized for a human but sharp and heavy for a small animal. "Why did you break the helm away?!"

"What's it for if boss told not to turn anywhere?" Arnold asked and smiled savagely. "And this way he won't get away from us now! You just lead him to me and I'll deal with him fast!"

The rat and the lizard exchanged surprised glances, acknowledged that the thug had a point, and moved towards the Ranger moving their weapons threateningly in front of them. Dale was much more worried about a buoy rising right in front of them. "How about turning?" he pointed at the rapidly approaching object.

Capone and Ray saw it, too. "PDAKE! BRAKE!"

"What?" Mousenegger asked.

"REMOVE YOUR FOOT FROM THE PEDAL, FOOL!" Dale yelled. Hearing familiar word, Mousenegger obeyed instinctively, but the speed didn't decrease at all.

"Wow, boss, look! It stuck!" Arnold giggled kicking at the pedal pressed deeply into the floor.

"WHAT?!" his associated screamed.

"Uhm, see you!" Dale bid them farewell and ran to the washboard.

"SHTOP!" Capone shouted jumping after the chipmunk with his hands outstretched. But Dale was faster and jumped overboard headfirst, while less lucky gangster became buried under his minions who jumped onto the same spot. "LED BE KO!"

"We're holding it, boss!" Arnold answered.

"TON'T KOLD! LED KO! KET DE FEBDIN!"

"What's wrong with you, boss?" Mousenegger grew concerned. "You're talking very strangely!"

"He had his tooth knocked out," Ray informed Arnold whom he was lying on.

"Oh, I see now! But what's he saying?"

"As far as I have understood, he wants us to let him go and get the vermin."

"What vermin?"

"The one who knocked his tooth out! A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!"

"What do you mean by 'A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!'?" Arnold asked, but then he looked where his friend was looking. "A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!" he yelled, too.

'A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!' Capone screamed louder than they both combined. Then Disco Volante collided with the buoy and her yelling passengers flew into the air and quickly disappeared in a garbage heap loaded onto a barge passing by.

"They went low, that means rain…" Dale commented on the flight of the criminal trio as he snorted and spat the water out. He looked around looking for his friends but then something heavy fell right beside him splashing him from his shoulders to the top of his head.

"Hold on, Mister Dale!" the chipmunk heard Dozer's voice. He had water in his eyes and had to search for the gift of heavens by touch. Soon his paw found something rigid which turned out to be a handle of the already familiar helm. The chipmunk grabbed it and didn't let it go even when Fishburn and Mouse dragged him onto Enterprise.

"Are you alright, sir? Sir, are you alright?" the little mouse fussed.

"I'm fine!" Dale gave him thumb up and sneezed loudly confirming he was telling the truth.

"Here, put it on!" the Newfoundland said as he lowered his cap onto the Ranger.

"No-no!" Dale objected enforcing his words with another sneeze. "It's disguise! If anyone sees you—"

"Oh, come on, Mister Dale! These barges will rather run us over than notice! Put it on!"

"Thank— ACHOO!" Dale pulled off his soaked sweater over his head and wrapped himself tightly into the cap.

"Bless you!" the WaGuS members wished him in unison.

"And health and wealth to you, too, guys!"

"What about them?" Dozer nodded at the barge crawling up Hackensack. "I can try to dig them out."

"Don't bother," Dale waved his hand. "That pile suits them perfectly!"

Everybody agreed and laughed loudly, then Dale continued. "Alright, let's move out of the waterway before somebody ran over us. And it would be nice to dry up before joining the others. Any ideas, Fish?"

"I've got some," the dog confirmed. He carefully drove around the debris floating around the still rocking buoy and headed towards the nearby bridge spangled with yellow, red and green lights. It was a part of Pulaski Skyway stretching for three and a half miles across Passaic and Hackensack rivers and was designed to allow passage of ships of all sizes between its almost one hundred and fifty feet high pillars. Enterprise found a refuge in thick shadows underneath one of these two-legged giants built exactly in the middle of the river.

Dale spoke first. "Well, it was great! What do you think? Agreed?"

"Agreed!" Fishburn and Dozer replied. They drove and flew their month's share today.

Mouse, on the other hand, felt deprived and took umbrage. "Sure, Mister Dale, it went great for you. You flew, fought, swam. And me—"

"And you helped the best way you could and gained experience!" Dale interrupted him. "Don't be upset, me and Chip watched our first combat missions mostly from the side, too, allowing Detective Drake and his dog, our big friend Plato, to act! Speaking of which," recalling the badge presented by the police bulldog, he handed Mouse the helm. "Take it! I dropped Capone's hat, unfortunately, but the helm is even better! Take care of it! It's a battle trophy and an important clue in the burglary case!"

"What… I…" Mouse stuttered unable to believe his fortune. "It's… It's for me? For me, right?!"

"For you," Dale confirmed. "Take it, don't be shy! You deserved it! Show it to your Mom, she'll be happy!"

"I will, I will!" the little crime fighter nodded clasping the helm with his hands. "I'll show it to everyone! My mom, my dad, my brothers, my friends! Everyone! I'll show it to everyone and tell them all about you! They will all know how brave, clever, strong, and kind you are!"

_Brave, clever, strong, and kind…_ Dale repeated in his mind, his foggy eyes staring into the distance and his thoughts wandering somewhere far away.

Mouse thought it was because of him. "Please, Mister Dale, forgive me for yesterday!" He added hastily. "I didn't want to insult you or Miss Foxglove, I just, well, it, uhm, happened so… It's all because of TV! You must understand…"

"What? Oh, I see!" Dale laughed. "Don't pay attention, it's nothing really! And forget about yesterday! It's all in the past now! It's—"

He didn't have time to say 'water under the bridge', for there came a thunderous splash and Enterprise was showered with that very water.

"OUCH!" Mouse was almost washed overboard and frightened. "What's that?!"

"Something fell," Dale answered wiping his face with his fists. "Something big, I'd say! Fish, Dozer! See anything?"

"Not yet!" the dove said, also temporarily blinded. But Fishburn was luckier, so he was the first to notice the floating object looking too much like a boot to be anything else.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" he roared. Almost knocking his friends off, he jumped into the river and swam to the widening circles on the surface. Some distance away from their center he dove, corrected for speed of current and looked for a drowner five feet to the south from the impact point. Although in the last decades the water condition in once the dirtiest of the US rivers improved greatly it was still very muddy, so it took the dog quite some time to notice a thin and irregular line of air bubbles. A person emitting them was already deeper than Fishburn anticipated and continued to submerge into greenish gloom which no swimmer and no dog could fish him out of.

Except the Newfoundland.

Rowing with his powerful webby paws capable of withstanding tides and oceanic waves, Fishburn rammed through the water mass to the drowner, grabbed his wavering hair with his teeth and dragged him back to the kingdom of the airbreathers. Reaching the surface, he swam under the drowner to keep his face high above the water and swam to the shore keeping his teeth clenched and breathing through the corners of his mouth hidden under folds. The rescued man showed no signs of life but the dog felt it wasn't too late yet and kept swimming with speed unreachable even for the best Human breast strokers towards Lincoln Park on the left coast of Hackensack. Situated in the cognominal New Jersey neighborhood this oasis withstood the urbanization pressure and was a favorite outing place for the locals whose observance and efficiency the life of their fellow fallen from the bridge depended on now.

Mouse grabbed Dale's shoulder. "We must help him!"

"On this?" Dale pointed at the dog-carrier deck under their feet. "Are you crazy? No way! They can see us!"

The mouse, his pity clearly visible, had to agree with the Ranger who, in turn, couldn't help but wonder at ups and downs of fate. It seemed that only yesterday he recklessly charged towards the danger thinking and seeing nothing, and only Monty's bear hug or Chip's bonk saved him from trouble. And now he was playing the role of a wizened leader chastening the younger hot shots. If she were here now, she wouldn't treat him the way she did on that day in Paris…

"Mister Dale? Is something wrong?"

"No-no, it's OK! He'll do it, don't worry!"

Indeed, Fishburn overcame current, distance, and slope. Dragging the victim to a pathway along the shore, the dog wailed drawlingly to attract the Humans' attention. By now the majority of strollers had left the park and the shore was empty. But here, in the north-western part of the park, Hudson County Prosecutors Office was located, and the pathway was no more than fifty feet away from the round-the clock guarded territory. Naturally, a loud wail under the very office windows of so important people couldn't go unnoticed, and the security detail armed with guns and flashlights went to investigate its source. A sight of unmoving man lying on the ground wearing soaked clothing and a Newfoundland with water flowing from its wool and sweater standing over him was more vibrant than the majority of photos on the Life magazine's website.

"HQ, it's Harrison!" one of the guards shouted into his shoulder microphone. "We've got a drowner! We're on the coast road, near the gates! Need ambulance, quickly! Fred!" he shouted, this time addressing his partner. "Help me!"

Fred sat down near the man and palpated his neck. Making sure there was a pulse, he began to turn him to his side when he noticed something strange. "Hey. Mike! His hands are tied!" he exclaimed pointing at black strap around the man's wrists. Similar strap was sticking out of his slipped up trouser leg. "And his legs, too!"

"So we've got a murder attempt here," Harrison observed. "We must resuscitate him. I'll search him, and you check whether he's got anything nasty in his mouth and nose."

"No, I'll search him, and you'll check it," Fred made a counterproposal having had his supper only recently. Mike grinned but said nothing and started wrapping his handkerchief around his palm.

"Check the dog, too, there can be address on its collar… Where is it?" Harrison looked around in bewilderment, but the large Newfoundland seemed to have vanished into thin air.

"Forget the dog! Look here!" Fred showed his partner a driving license he found on the body.

"Blather, Stanley Roderick…" Harrison read the plastic card. "Oh my! That's why he looked familiar to me— Hey, what's that?!"

Fred pointed his flashlight at the nearby bushes and saw nothing but branches and dry leaves. Actually, there was nothing else there. Not anymore.

But previously there was Fishburn there. Making sure his service were no longer needed, he left unpretentiously. But Fred's words about the rescued man's tied hands and legs made him stop and listen carefully, and when Mike mentioned Blather's name the dog knew it was very serious. So he ran to the shore and jumped into the water. He was in such a hurry he barely avoided collision with some unremarkable container ship and almost capsized Enterprise the design of which clearly didn't account for 150-pound Newfoundlands jumping out of the water.

"Mister Dale… Guys… It's…"

"Are they chasing you?" Dale grew alarmed, put his paws over his eyes like a visor and stared into the water looking for SEALs.

"Worse. It's Blather."

"WHAT?!" The Rescue Ranger exclaimed. "That reporter?! What a snoop! Someone jumped from a bridge just five minutes ago, and he's here already!"

Fishburn shook his head making another cold shower session for the others. "No, it's not like that! It was him who fell from the bridge!"

"Probably thought he could fly," Dozer smirked. He had no warm feelings towards the reporter whom he considered guilty for his yesterday's humiliation.

The dog hemmed gloomily. "I wish he did. He was dropped from the bridge, his arms and legs tied— Mister Dale?"

"Uh-hu… Yeah…" Dale muttered. He felt chilled, and the dog-carrier's deck started rocking as if they were in a powerful storm, so he sat down wrapping himself in Fishburn's cap even tighter. "He was dropped, you say… His arms and legs tied, you say… DOZER!"

"Huh?"

"Take me there, quickly!" Dale ordered. Unwrapping himself from the cap, he took his sweater off the handlebar, but after Blather's fall and Fishburn's shaking off it was even wetter than before. "Fish, may I—"

"Sure, Mister Dale!" the Newfoundland took the cap into his mouth, bit its top off and chewed two holes for the hands in its sides turning it into a shapeless but cozy tee. "I think it'll be better this way!"

"Yes, sure, thanks!" Dale smiled thankfully. "Dozer, quickly!"

"Can I go with you, Mister Dale?" Mouse pleaded.

The chipmunk shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, but it's the Rescue Rangers' case now."

"But you take Dozer with you!" there were tearful notes in Mouse's voice.

"Only to the shore. He'll return then."

"Why?" the dove felt offended. "Did I work poorly today? I—"

"It's nothing like that, Doz! You worked great!" Dale met the gazes of each of his comrades-in-arms in turn. "You all worked great! You are a great team on the whole, and it was a pleasure working with you! Thank you for being there, for having come together and for fighting! And for you wanting to come with me, too! But—" he thought for a moment searching for explanation that would convince them without offending, but found none. "In short, I'll go alone. I need to," he said instead.

"And what should we do?" Fishburn asked.

Dale was surprised to hear the question, but when he realized the dog was absolutely serious something broke inside him, or maybe connected, or maybe both. In any case, he answered without his usual ironic pomposity but with sincere highness. "Same as before! Today's operation showed you learned everything I taught you and nothing and nobody can stop you now! Consider it a kind of graduation exam! So carry on working, patrolling the equatorium, fighting crime! You're the only hope for the harbor dwellers! Don't fail them! Promise?"

"Promise!" the touched WaGuS members answered in unison, and Dale felt that if he stayed here a little longer he would be unable to part with them.

But then white-red ambulance lights appeared among the trees on the shore, making him shake up and hasten. "Alright, I need to go, or they'll drive him away! Thanks again for everything! Take care! If you have a minute, welcome to our HQ! You know where to find us! High five, Mouse! Dozer, let's fly!"

"Let's fly, Mister Dale!" the dove reported. The chipmunk climbed on his back and the grey bird flew up, quickly disappearing in the night sky.

Mouse pressed the helm harder to his chest and sobbed.

"Here, here," Fishburn poked him with his paw softly. "Don't."

"I know," the mouse began to wipe his face with his sleeve vigorously. "I shouldn't! Mister Dale wouldn't have liked it!"

"He wouldn't have…" the Newfoundland agreed and looked away so that the youngest WaGuS member couldn't see his strict commander crying.

* 22 *

Saying his usual short thanks to a gate security officer for wishing him good night, Branson drove off the White House perimeter. But he turned not to the north as he usually did but to the south, thus avoiding seeing a pale glow of floodlights illuminating the destroyed NCS facility which could be seen almost from anywhere for the law forbade construction of buildings taller than the Capitol's spire in Washington. But it was cold comfort for he was heading not to his house in Bethesda but on Potomac's right bank, to Clermont. To one of the houses that got sorrowful news today with his direct assistance.

The house of the Jacksons wasn't asleep. There was light in all the windows, the gate was opened. The rug before the front door was already hopelessly trampled by previous visitors, but he was still expected, and as soon as he removed his finger from the bell he found himself embraced by Marjorie, Leroy's wife and Samuel's aunt. Almost knocking Trevor off his feet, she put her arms around him and pressed her face dappled with wrinkles and tear traces to the collar of his black mackintosh. Actually, the mackintosh belonged to John Blunt, Branson's friend and colleague whom Branson gave his light beige coat instead which didn't suit the current situation.

"Trev…" Marjorie whispered between two sobs.

"I'm so sorry, Marge…"

"We expected you earlier, Uncle Trevor," Elizabeth, daughter of Leroy and Marjorie, said in a voice husky with crying. The usually lean girl fanatically looking after her shape looked like a ghost now. Branson wasn't even surprised not to have noticed her coming.

"I know, Liza. I came as soon as I could."

"Did you catch them?"

"We will, Liza. We surely will."

"They never caught King's killers. The real ones, I mean." Liza's voice was too hoarse and low to discern her emotions so it was unclear whether it was a hint, a rebuke or a simple statement of fact.

"We'll catch these," Branson said the only thing he could say now. "I'll catch them."

"Oh, dear, I shouldn't have kept you on a threshold," Marjorie let Branson go and stepped aside. "Come in, Trev… Will you have a supper?"

"Thank you, I won't stay long," the man refused proceeding to the living room. He took of his coat, but didn't hang it, just put it over his arm.

"I've cooked wheat cakes," the widow continued, clearly not hearing him. She heard and saw very little at the moment, having become twenty years older in just a few hours. "You know, he likes them…"

"Liked," Liza corrected her mother cruelly. She was in that dangerous age when you forget about delicacy and decorum while grieving, so Branson had to intervene. "Did you call your sister, Marge? I called them right after calling you, but they didn't pick up."

"They are coming. They'll be here in the morning. With Bart," the woman answered. Bartolommeo Jackson was two years older than Elizabeth and by an old American habit he was studying at the most distant university from his home, which was The University of California, Berkeley in his case. "When will they give us… them?"

"Soon, I think. Although the FBI is working on it, not Secret Service."

"Secret Service, meet FBI. FBI, meet Secret Service," Elizabeth proclaimed rhythmically like a swinging pendulum. "We've been hearing these acronyms all day, and each of them does everything but what's really needed. First those two blokes from the CIA, now you…"

"CIA?" Branson asked. "You mean, NCS? They are working on it, too, you see—"

"Oh, they too!" the girl rolled her eyes. "You're just swarming up there! No wonder nobody was caught!"

"Stop it, Liza…" the mother ordered her, but she made it weakly and unconvincingly, and thus the effect was the opposite.

"Stop it?! Me?! Make them stop it! All! All of them! Enough! I'm fed up! Paper smiles, false sympathy! Every time it's all the same! They come, they strike a pose, and they tell us about their death, as if one time is not enough! Not enough! Yes, it's not enough! They took dad, they took Sammy, but they want more! MORE!"

The news of her father's and cousin's death shocked the girl, and every hour and every condolence just added to her nervousness, and it burst out now, like tsunami hitting the shore after an underwater earthquake. There was no sense and no use in searching for some rational point in this flow of consciousness, but Branson, trained to notice every detail, still decided to make things clear.

"You were told several times about… uhm…"

"YES! First you called, then Aunt Joan, then those two from the CIA… You call that co-working, yes?! Cooperation?! Collaboration?! What collaboration, for god's sake, if you can't determine who will tell the relatives that their fathers, sons, brothers, cousins are dead?! Nobody knows how to work up there! Nobody! Not CIA, not FBI, not CSI, not this Service of yours, Uncle Trevor! Uncle Trevor! Uncle… Trev…"

Branson stepped towards her to support her, but what he thought to be her falling down was really a mighty leap at him. She collided with him and put her arms around him and then burst into tears as unexpectedly as she started screaming before that. It was unclear whether it was a decline after climax or a short-time calmness in the eye of the storm, but the moment needed to be seized.

"Marge, bring her _something_ to drink!" Trevor ordered. The housewife understood everything and trotted to the bathroom, to the medicine locker. In a minute and a half that took her to prepare a sedative mix Deputy Assistant Director of Presidential Protective Division heard many things about state's bureaucratic machine, the mores of law enforcement agencies protecting it, and himself as a direct representative of both these parasites on the society's body who take away bodies and maim souls. Branson knew that Liza was driven not by cold hatred but by feverish desperation multiplied by youthful maximalism, but still it was very unpleasant to hear all that, with addition of crying, so he met Marjorie's return with poorly concealed relief.

"Take it, Liza," he said drawing slightly back and turning to allow Liza to see the glass her mother was holding.

"Drink it, dear, it will help," Marjorie added and almost ruined it all. But after saying and crying everything out, Elizabeth was too thirsty to notice the catch in her mother's words. The liquid he gulped without pausing for breath invigorated her, but, fortunately, not for long.

"Liza, you need to lie down. Mom will help you," Branson said quietly feeling the girl began drifting off. Mrs. Jackson quickly took her by the hand and led upstairs, leaving Trevor to absorb the atmosphere of grief filling the house of his old friends and go down memory lane to those happy and sunny days that looked like a part of some different universe now. Almost a year and a half had passed since he and Leroy met for the last time, and they both spent this time familiarizing themselves with their new and very important positions in their respective agencies. But they maintained contact, keeping each other filled in the latest developments. This way Branson knew about Sammy to start working with his uncle, and Jackson — that his old friend divorced yet again…

"She's asleep," Marjorie told him upon her return. "Thank you for your help. I wouldn't be able to get her to bed on my own. I'm sorry you had to listen to all that."

"It's okay, Marge," Trevor smiled sorrowfully. "I heard worse."

"Forgive her. She didn't do it out of spite."

"No need to explain anything. I understand. Believe me, the only thing I want at the moment is to find those who did that. But I think we're very far from that."

Marjorie nodded. She was married to the clandestine agency officer for too long to hope this investigation would end quickly. "I know, Trev, I know it well. So I won't ask you to catch them as fast as you can. Just catch them, okay?"

"We will. I promise."

"And, please, work, I don't know," Jackson shrugged slightly, "like, a bit more in concert. I know it's chaos, but you should have organized the work with the victims' relatives somehow. I can't say for Liza, but as for me, when they told me it was about my husband, I thought there was a mistake and they were written down as the perished by mistake. And when it turned out otherwise, that it was true, I… in short, I lost them both again."

Her chin trembled, corners of her mouth drooped, and her eyes fogged looking into the past. One more reliving of her loss sapped the remains of her strength, so when Trevor embraced her she leant onto him, completely burned-out, and he had to practically carry her to a sofa.

"I'm sorry, Marge," he said sitting next to her and clutching her toilworn but still tender palm. "I arranged to tell you everything myself, but there's total pandemonium there, and they could forget that, and the CIA just went by the list. I know I should have, I must have controlled it—"

"Don't blame yourself, Trev," Marjorie told him. She covered his palm with hers and added, putting her head on his shoulder: "It's not your fault."

"I hope they didn't cause any trouble? Well, aside from those you already mentioned."

"No, of course not. Very pleasant and polite young men. They greeted, apologized for intrusion and for bad news. I felt they feigned their sorrow, but they did it masterfully, they put their souls into it, I'd even say, and I am grateful for that. They didn't wring their hands, didn't cry a river. They were calm and business-like"

"They have instructions to follow," Branson explained.

"And you?"

"I have an excuse, if need be. And I'm not on duty now."

"But you keep calculating everything, don't you? You didn't take the glass but turned Liza towards it."

"I didn't want her to knock it out of my hand."

"You are the embodiment of cautiousness."

"I am who I am," Trevor made a helpless gesture with his hands.

Jackson sighed. "Yes, I know, it's your job."

"It is, yes. Did agents say anything else?"

Marjorie made a face. "And you told me you weren't on duty."

"Sorry. You're right. It's not a right time for curiosity. You don't have to answer."

"Oh, it's nothing. Of course they said many other things. They said I made great coffee."

"It's true."

"Oh, please. What else…? They said Leroy was a great agent and a true patriot."

"He was."

"Yes, he was. They said Sammy looked very good on the photo…"

Branson frowned. "Was he on the photo?"

"Of course he was!" Marjory looked at him strangely. "It was his photo!"

"Wait a minute, I don't quite get it. What photo are you talking about?"

"And what photo you thought I was talking about?"

"The one with Snow…" Branson answered with short-sighted honesty and paid a price. The woman's face seemed cracking and her arms squeezed his palm like vise. "Snow…" she said through her teeth. "Tell me, Trev—"

"Let's not talk about it, Marge—"

"No, Trev, we will! After that TV show, yesterday's, about the cyborg mice, I called him. I asked him what he thought about it. You know, I expected him to laugh and say that it was all a hoax and tell me to forget it and not to worry. I would have believed him. He never lied to me. And when he said he couldn't tell me anything, I felt he was hiding something, and I knew it was all true… Trev, is it true?"

"Marge, I—"

"Alright, don't say it. You were there, you saw it, so I won't hear truth from you. No matter. I want to tell you one thing. At night, after midnight, he called me. He said he's got problems at work, and he'd be later than usual. He told me not to worry and not to call him on his cell phone. And I didn't call him. I just turned the TV on and knew everything. From the TV. Not from my husband or from my nephew, but from the TV. There you go, Trev."

"Marge—"

"He was there? That Snow was there? It was him they blew up, right? They killed him? They killed everyone because of him. didn't they?"

"Listen—"

"Yes or no, Trev? Say just 'yes' or 'no', and I'll calm down, I promise."

Branson knew she wouldn't hold that promise, and his answer would bring everything but calm. But he was unable not to give her the answer. Not after everything that happened between them.

"Yes, Marge, he was there."

Jackson dropped her head on her breast. "I knew it. I knew it would kill somebody sooner or later."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it," Marjorie waved at the TV watching them with its evil standby mode red eye. "I mean them. Great idea: broadcast such information live on all the channels. They should have added a large label across the screen: 'They are here! Come and kill them!' And they came. And killed. And these… And these go on… And they won't stop… I wish I could see them when it hits them or their relatives…"

Branson had already heard something like that from Cunningham so he quickly changed the topic into a more productive one. "I must admit I still don't understand what photo you were speaking about."

"About the photo of Sammy in Leroy's shirt. The one with the CIA emblem, you surely remember it…"

Of course Branson remembered it. The story with those shirts was truly epic. He and Leroy ordered it in the same firm, each with the emblem of his agency, and when they came to pick them up, they found that the wind rose drawn by Far Eastern artisans on Leroy's shirt lacked three beams, and the Secret Service emblem's shield had its stripes drawn in wrong order. The firm owner tried hard to prove everything was correct and held his ground until his clients showed him the real badges of these agencies. The emotional interplay on his face was priceless…

"I see now why those agents liked it."

"I hope they'll give it back."

"What? They took it away?"

"Yes. They said they needed it for identification. They have some special computer for it. It works fast, don't you know?"

"It depends," Trevor shrugged.

Marjorie nodded and leant back on the sofa, closing her eyes and bending her head back. Branson did the same allowing himself a few dozen seconds of rest and isolation from the day's hustle and bustle. As soon as his eyelids touched each other, they became leaden and resisted opening. Only twenty four hours of vigil, and the need for sleep was already unbearable.

_I'm getting old… _Branson thought with sorrow fighting his sleepiness off. It could help to resume the conversation, for instance, by asking Marge whether she remembered those agents' names and what Leroy's photo they took.

But he knew she could say they didn't took any, then think about her own answer and ask him why that could be and what he thought about it as a professional. And he, in turn, would be forced to either avoid the question or spill it out, namely that forensic portrait examination was done when the victim's body was greatly mutilated and the computer modeling was needed. In the former case she would suffer from unknowing, in the latter from the terrible pictures conjured up by her imagination. No good.

So he said nothing, letting them both to have some rest and. probably, he would have fallen asleep there, still holding Marjorie's hand, if she hadn't asked him suddenly: "Maybe you'll have a supper? I've got everything ready, it remains only to heat it all up…"

…They were childhood friends. Trevor Branson, nicknamed 'General' for his interest in military history and urge to command; Leroy Jackson, who was too touchy and physically strong to get any standing nickname; and Marjorie Walsh, 'the Queen of King Street'. They spent almost all their time together, and if you saw one of them, you could bet the other two were somewhere nearby, too. Trevor, like any battlemaster, generated ideas, which Leroy then elaborated and developed, and Marge made their fulfillment more pleasant with her presence and periodically acted as a voice of reason that pulled the boys in when they went too far in their attempts to impress her. It wasn't just a friendship, but a harmonic supplement of one another, and their union was natural, productive and brought them only happiness and joy.

But then Trevor and Leroy grew up and wanted more. They wanted what only Marjorie could give them, who, as the years went by, turned into a real Queen without quotation marks, and who could have only one King.

She chose Leroy.

Trevor vividly remembered that amazingly warm summer evening and their conversation under a mighty lone oak, 'Their Tree': a place for meetings, games and privacy. They were too grown up to climb onto it, so they stood on the ground, their backs pressed to the trunk, and looking into different directions.

"Why?" he asked several times, and every time he got the same answer: "I don't know. It's just like that. It's hard. Forgive me…"

He forgave her, and he carried on. He served three years in Marine Corps, graduated from college as Bachelor in Criminal Law, then applied to join United States Secret Service and went from a rookie special agent assigned to field office in Boston, Massachusetts, to Deputy Assistant Director of Presidential Protective Division, searching for a Queen entire time. His Queen. And he found her. And he married. And he divorced. And found her and married again. And divorce again. For, truth be told, he never found her. For he never really looked for her. Because looked for not just some Queen, but the Queen, from King Street. For Marjorie Walsh. And here they are sitting side by side, holding each other's hand, and she asks him whether he wants to have a supper…

"No, Marge," Branson answered rising abruptly and hastily putting his coat on. "Sorry, but I can't. I need to run. You should understand…"

"I do," Marjorie got up, too, and helped him to button up. "I understand everything."

"Listen, it's not what you think it is…"

"Come on, Trev. You never learned to lie. It will kill you one day."

Branson didn't object. There was no point. He was bad at wearing masks and more often than not he said what he thought and not what was needed. That's why despite numerous prestigious awards and commendations for distinguished service he was still just a second man in one of twelve Secret Service's divisions, and none of his four marriages lasted longer than five years.

"Will you come to the funeral?" Marjorie asked when she opened the door for him.

"Of course I will. Take care."

"You too, Trev."

The door closed and Branson walked towards his car he left in front of the gates. A strong cold wind threw drops of moisture at his face and clapped the flaps of his coat, but he didn't regret leaving the warm house even for a second. Not that he thought badly of Marjorie, he just knew that under the influence of immediate circumstances people can sometimes say words or do things they deeply regret afterwards. He should wait until everything settles and wounds scar. No problem. He waited almost thirty years, he can wait a little more.

His hand on the door handle, he looked back and saw the light was still on the ground floor. Either Marjorie wasn't going to sleep, or she forgot to turn it off. Branson's first urge was to go back and check, but he felt it would be much harder for him to leave the second time. So he crossed the street and rang a bell of the opposite house. When he visited Leroy for the last time, he introduced Trevor to the Hewletts, an orderly couple who lived here. It was quite a long time ago, but the name on the post box was the same, and he hoped the owners hadn't changed, too.

As he expected, Aaron Hewlett opened the door. Colonel in retirement, he managed to keep both his bearing and daring even after many years of civil life. Branson apologized deeply for his late intrusion and asked him to accompany Mrs. Jackson for some time and, if possible, make sure she went to bed. The colonel was understanding of his request and went upstairs to dress up. Trevor returned to his car, waited for Aaron to enter the Jacksons house, and only then turned the engine on. Actually, he had no doubts Marjorie had enough bravery and moderation to live through it all, plus she had Bart and Liza, and thus both purpose and sense to carry on. But his work taught him it was better to cover all bases than regret afterwards, and his personal experience proved this rule was three times more correct in matters of heart.

Checking with sign on yet another crossing, Branson turned the left signal light on. He planned to go around the District of Columbia from the west and drive onto Wisconsin Avenue that crossed Bethesda from north to south. This way he would go not in the northbound lane jammed with people returning from Washington, but in the more or less free southbound lane which would take him home. He had no wish at all to return to the bachelor's untidy cottage which served him his dwelling, but it was the only place he could do all three absolutely necessary things: find fresh shirt, eat something, and sleep for at least four hours.

When the traffic light allowed him to pass, Branson slowly started forward but no sooner had he finished his turn when a screeching peek sounded inside his car.

"Pick up!" he shouted the code word, and his phone inserted into a speaker system obediently accepted the call. "Branson's here!"

"Trev? It's John," special agent Blunt's voice sounded from the overhead speaker.

"Hi! If it's about the coat, I'll bring him in the morning."

"We've got problems."

Branson pulled over. Working in Presidential Protection, it is the last thing you'd want to hear, especially while driving.

"Trev, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm listening! Something with the object?"

"No."

"Another letter?" he didn't have to add anything else, for it was John who told him about the message uncovering the MAP project.

"Off target again. Does the name Stanley Roderick Blather ring any bells?"

"If it's that New York reporter, then yes, it rings many things. What about him?"

"Somebody tried to kill him."

"Really? Who?" Branson asked. After today's attack the list of suspects was very long.

"Two men posing as Secret Service agents."

Trevor's sleepiness vanished without a trace. "What?! Are you sure?!"

"Yes, our Newark office confirmed that. I faxed you the report."

"Receiving," Branson said, impatiently tearing the first sheet of paper coming out from the printer and looking through it. It was a report by Frank Corrigan, the head of Newark field office. Professionally written document contained minute by minute chronology of the events, starting with the phone call from Maplewood Police Department, New Jersey, and ending with location of barely alive Blather in Lincoln Park on the coast of Hackensack River and his transportation to emergency ward of Jersey City Medical Center.

"Good job," Trevor observed.

"You mean our guys or the killers?" Blunt asked just in case.

"Our guys, of course. The killers worked sloppily and probably won't stop."

"Don't worry, our guys are there already."

"FBI, NCS, and the police, too, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I see. I need a helicopter."

"What helicopter?"

"An ordinary helicopter to fly to Jersey City."

"What Jersey City? The Director's gathering general meeting on the current situation!"

"Great! So my absence won't be noticed."

"You're one of the reporters!"

"I'll write him everything later. So, about the helicopter. It should be waiting for me in ten minutes—"

"Come round, Trev! No helicopter without Director's approval!"

"So get me one! Call Gyllenhaal, describe the situation! We must take this case for ourselves, and agents from field office don't have the authority required! Someone more powerful is needed! I met Coolidge from the FBI and Cunningham from NCS, they know me, so I must go there! Tell Gyllenhaal!"

"He's in the meeting!"

"Then tell his deputy!"

"You are his deputy…"

"Exactly! So listen to my official order: a helicopter must be waiting for me in ten minutes on the helipad number two, fully prepared to fly to New Jersey!"

"Trev, we don't have any spare helicopters anyways! All of them are in New York, remember? And if any becomes free, it will be in three hours minimum!"

Branson grumbled something inaudible.

"What? Trev, repeat, I didn't hear you!"

"Nothing, Johnny, forget it… Got a pen? Write it all down…"

"And that's it?" Blunt asked ironically when Branson finished dictating.

"Yes. Oh, no, one more thing. You've got three hours to do it. The clock is ticking!"

"Wait! What three hours?"

"Three hours it will take me to get to that hospital. Bye, hang up!"

"Trev—" Blunt tried to object but the codeword was said and the car's loudspeaker system ended the conversation.

"Dial number: operator!" Branson ordered it immediately. "Central? This is Deputy Assistant Director Branson, personal code three-five-five-bravo-zulu-one-one. Connect me to special agent Corrigan, head of Newark field office…!"

Having given all the instructions to the author of the report, Trevor input the Jersey City Medical Center's address contained in the report into his GPS navigator, put a magnetic beacon light on the roof and rode along the 200-mile route the computer mapped for him.


	6. Chapter 5 Hit and Run

**Chapter 5**

**Hit and Run**

* 23 *

_Day Third, night_

While Trevor Branson was racing through the night northwards along Interstate 95, on the opposite end of the globe the sun was already shining with all worth over Farsian Gulf giving people warmth and happiness. For every single citizen of democratic Akbarnistan every given day was filled with worries and troubles but they endured all the hardships with dignity, knowing that their efforts were repaid a hundredfold accelerating curing of injuries of their oppression-ravaged land and helping to build a country they wouldn't be ashamed to pass on to their children.

"Parie, wake up! It's half past seven!"

Parahk J'quai puckered her nose, mumbled something, and rolled to her other side without opening her eyes.

"Parie!"

"No, Daddy!" the girl pleaded. "Just a little more…"

Fareed smiled but remained unyielding and shook his daughter's shoulder again. "Get up, sweetie. You'll get late for the lesson."

"What lesson?" Parahk looked at her dad with her sleepy surprised eyes. "School's off today."

"Right. That's why I asked Doctor Alvan to come and tutor you in math."

"Ugh, math…" the girl made a wry face and covered her head with a blanket. "I hate it!"

"Treat it as you like, but you must know it!" Fareed pointed out.

"I know, I know… 'The country's First Daughter can't be an underachiever…'"

"Exactly! Come on, Parie, get up!"

"Just half an hour more…"

"No halves an hour! You should wash your face, do your morning exercise, and eat your breakfast, and Doctor Alvan will be here at nine. It would be impolite to make him wait, don't you think?"

"I don't!" Parahk answered but it could be heard even through the blanket that she was just acting up.

"Don't be a naughty girl, Parie!" her father decided to play along and feigned indignation, then poked his finger into the blanket.

Parahk giggled and moved her elbow about. "It tickles!"

"It tickles, you say? Don't be a naughty girl, then!"

"I will!"

"Then we'll tickle a naughty girl!" Fareed 'became enraged' and started poking his daughter with fingers on both his hands. Parahk squalled merrily and fought back with her legs, but her father snatched a moment and pulled the blanket off her.

"Hey! It's unfair!" the girl shouted.

Her father laughed. "Of course! How did you think? I could never win a fair fight against you, you'll tire me out fast. Alright, come on, get up."

Parahk yawned mightily and put her hands under her pillow which seemed stiff and uncomfortable in the evening but now was the embodiment of softness and comfort and didn't want to let her go so easily.

"I had such an interesting dream…" she said musefully.

"About what?" the man became interested and sat back on the bed.

"I don't know," his daughter squinted cunningly. "I must finish watching it to tell for sure!"

"Look how smart we are!" Fareed gently caressed her cheek and kissed her nose. "Let's make a deal: you become a good girl, get up and so everything you must, and we'll watch your dream together en route to Bassorah. Deal?"

Parahk pursed her lips. "In helicopter? Quite some nice place for sleep… Dad, must I really go with you there?"

"Of course! You'll be cutting the ribbon on the opening ceremony of the new terminal!"

"But there's so many people there! Can't anyone else do that?"

"No, Parie. It's a tradition, everybody will be expecting you and they'll grow very sad if you didn't come."

"I have opened a whole bunch of those terminals already, Dad!"

Fareed stopped smiling. "Me too," he said thoughtfully looking aside. Parahk seized the opportunity and carefully pulled the blanket back towards her, but then she saw her father's mood was playful no longer. "Is something wrong, Daddy? I said something improper? Forgive me, please!"

"No-no!" J'quai smiled quickly but his gaze remained slightly detached. "Everything's fine, sweetie! Get up, your breakfast will get cold."

Kissing his daughter one more time, this time into her forehead, he quickly left the room and entered a long corridor crossing the entire second floor of the Al-Auja Government Compound. One of his very first decrees as the Chairman of the Council of Ministers of Akbarnistan was to put all his stepfather's palaces except the capital's one on auction and dole out all the money to pay amends for the relatives of the previous regime's victims. He didn't sell Al-Auja respecting the memory of his wife, Azyza, who grew up inside it and never saw her daughter nor free Akbarnistan. She was directly involved in its creation and would like it very much. At least, Fareed wanted to think so.

But he couldn't.

He could perfectly understand Parahk's tiredness. She had been the First Daughter for a relatively short time now, but she had already opened almost as many industrial objects as Fareed through his entire time of serving his stepfather's Minister of Industry. It looked like another reason to be happy with the country developing at rate previously unseen and the creation of thousands of new jobs, which allowed him to be proud with himself and his people and look into the future with optimism. Unfortunately, he had problems with the latter.

In Haddahm's time the opening ceremonies of new factories always had the same scenario. First there was a pompous report about the work done and extra miles went which allowed to save time and resources. Then there were expatiative reflection on the new horizons opened before the field and the country as a whole, and at the end there were solemn assurances on behalf of the whole stuff to work with unimaginable eagerness and truly inhuman productivity. When there was nothing more to say, the ribbon was cut and the stage was opened for vocational orchestras, companies, and on the most significant occasions — to distinguished pop stars who relieved the tedium at least a little.

In free Akbarnistan, on the other hand, each such ceremony was a captivating show using the latest developments of the world's show business and stagecraft led by famous actors, TV hosts and DJs from popular radio stations. But despite hundreds of people exerting themselves trying to make each such ceremony unique, all of them felt the same for Fareed, and in just one week he could barely remember the contents of the turns and the names of the invited celebrities, while still remembering the Haddahm's ones almost by heart. One could blame these memory quirks to his youth and inexperience at the time and everything being new to him, but the real reason was quite different…

"Good morning, Sayyid Chairman!" his press-secretary greeted him as she handed him a thin leather folder. "Here are the materials for your speech."

"Thank you, Ravan," Fareed nodded absent-mindedly shoving the documents under his arm.

The woman was surprised. "Won't you look through them?"

"Later. In the helicopter."

"But when will you write the speech?"

"As if there's anything to write. Intro from the last, ending from the next to last. A few listen to them anyway. Oh, and insert the name of our newest terminal…"

In previous times it was unthinkable. Partly because Haddahm personally reviewed texts of all his stepson's public speeches, but mainly because every occasion was unique in its own way. During his term as the Minister of Industry Fareed opened five textile factories, three instrument-making and two pipe-rolling plants, half a dozen of petrochem plants, pulp and paper mills and a lot of smaller facilities including consumer goods manufacturing and food plants, as well as several thermal and gas-turbine power plants. Each time it was new place, new people, new tasks, new hopes…

And now what?

Bassorah, Umm Qasir, Al-Bakr. Umm Qasir, Al-Bark, Bassorah. Al-Bakr, Bassorah, Umm Qasir. Today it was Bassorah again. And it was an oil terminal again. They do nothing but open new terminals. Oil terminals, only oil terminals and nothing but oil terminals. Oh, wait, it wasn't true. They also launched several powerful dredgers to deepen the port aquatorium to allow the liquid bulk terminals there to serve the largest supertankers; and also built new lines to roll small and medium sized pipes necessary to build oil terminals…

"Sayyid J'quai, are you alright?" Ravan became worried. "You look unhealthy…"

"I'm just tired, Ravan, don't pay attention… Look, there will be parliament hearings on energy next week, am I right?"

"Yes, they start on Tuesday. Your report is already prepared!"

"Yeah… Remind me, what was the final version?"

"Just a second…" the press-secretary took her smartphone out and opened the needed document. "First couple of hundreds of general words, then aims and tasks for the next five years, the programme for joining the Kyoto Protocol—"

"That's it!" Fareed interrupted her. "Kyoto Protocol, right! We need to add another section to it, on the Gulf ecology."

"Gulf ecology?" Ravan asked.

"Exactly. Bulk terminals, tankers, pipelines. How they affect the quality of water, fish, birds, plankton, everything. Forecasts by ecologists and what they recommend…"

"Well," the press-secretary shrugged, "we already know what they recommend. Lower the oil production, decrease the number of terminals and deadweight of tankers—"

"I know. You need to organize and compile it. Contact the leading specialists, engage them into cooperation, invite them to the hearings. Do find someone from Europe or America, or better from both. The more opinions the better."

"Of course, Sayyid J'quai!" the woman's fingers flew about the screen keyboard.

"And arrange a meeting for eight o'clock at night with Ministers of Oil, Trade, Industry, Electric Energy, and Environment."

"Eight o'clock at night, got it. Now concerning your press-conference in Bassorah…"

…Stan Blather's Special Report aired at two o'clock in the morning local time, when Fareed and Parahk were already asleep. The palace employees were wise enough not to wake the girl up, but they shook her father awake and led him to the TV in the second floor's hall. J'quai habitually asked for coffee, but while it was being prepared he fathomed the news and needed no additional stimulants. And although he carefully studied the circumstances of his stepfather's death and had long suspected there was something fishy about it, American combat mice-assassins were a little too much for him.

As soon as the program ended he called the White House and broke through to President Logan in just twenty minutes. Logan said it was all news to him, too, and promised to see into the matter. More than twenty hours had passed since then, and now, after the opening of the terminal, Fareed was going to answer the journalists' questions. Press-conference promised to be long and nervous, for not every head of the state can 'boast' with coming to power as the result of actions of some mysterious terrorist group. And if his acquaintance with MacMillan surfaced… J'quai hoped his American colleague would help him, but now, after this explosion in Washington, he knew that George Logan and his agencies would have no time for Akbarnistan for quite a while, so he would have to take the rap on his own, both before the press and before Parahk whom he hadn't discussed this topic yet…

"And what about the press-conference?" he asked Ravan.

"You tell me, Sayyid J'quai. I wasn't on the stage at the time."

"Yes, I understand… Maybe I should refuse to give any comments, what do you think?"

"No, not this!" the press-secretary protested vigorously. "It would make things worse!"

"Then we could get away with some general phrases. Repeat what they already know."

"They won't like it."

"They always don't like something, you are the one to know that."

"True," the press-secretary nodded. "But they become enraged when lead down the garden path. They are demanded to write a certain preset number of words, and the less we say them, the more they imagine, and they are very imaginative. They'll offer so many versions it would take forever to refute all of them. It's better to give him one big bone. Something that would last for some time and spare them the need to invent anything."

"Yes, democratic press is as smart as a steel trap!" Fareed laughed. "Thank you, Ravan, you're a real treasure! If it weren't for you, only bones would remain of me by now! I'll think something up."

Ravan grinned. "You'd better, Sayyid J'quai! They won't spare me, too."

"Don't worry, I'll prepare everything before the departure. Alright, I'll be it my cabinet if need be… Oh, Ravan! If you please, see to it that Parahk had her breakfast and prepared for the tutor's visit. I know it's not your duty, but sometimes I think she obeys you even better than me…"

"Sure!" the woman smiled warmly. "You are right, it's not a common duty for press-secretaries, but we know how to get along with others!"

"That's right!" Fareed acknowledged more than eagerly. By looks and ply of the character Ravan was almost the complete opposite of Azyza. Still while in her company Fareed felt if not the same then something very similar. Similar easiness, freedom and almost childish frankness, vividly demonstrated by Parahk when she asked him when he and 'Lady Ravan' become married. He laughed it off then as best as he could, but, although he didn't say 'tomorrow', he didn't say 'never' either…

In his cabinet the Chairman looked through the day's selection of domestic and international press. As expected, the Washington explosion was the main topic of the day before. The official version was printed on a separate sheet and was half a page long at most. The other thirty nine sheets contained a brief overview of the versions presented by journalists and independent experts. Some agreed with the authorities' version, some pointed out its flaws of various significance, and some rejected it from the start. Some tried to explain the situation and make it loud and simple, some muddied the water and then perplexed their readers with far-reaching conclusions. Nothing special, really, but when it concerns you personally, you perceive it very differently.

_That reporter suffered, too…_ J'quai thought when he reached the article about explosion in Blather's house. According to the text, it was considered a coincidence rather than a foul play, but pious Fareed saw it as the message from Allah, The All-Forgiving Ultimate Judge, who deprave the reporter of material wealth but saved his family from death. What if it was the sign that not everything he had told in his show was true? That sounded comforting…

Finishing the press, J'quai spent half an hour to write his speech, or rather, constructing it from parts of the previous ten ones, and then finally took up a really important task: preparing for the evening meeting under an ambitious slogan 'Let's stop being raw-material appendage!' Very soon his real and virtual workspaces were buried under reports, accounts and analytical notes, so numerous it seemed he would never read them all. But now Fareed worked not like a bureaucrat but like a true passionarian, so he couldn't put a foot wrong, solving problems before they really appeared, and soon the document under working title 'New Industrial Policy' was finished.

The first part of the document printed in small font with a single interval contained exhaustive analysis of the current situation, while the second was a five-year plan of turning Akbarnistan from exporter of crude oil and products of its primary processing into a producer of a wide spectrum of high-tech industrial goods. Currently the country had to import the lion's share of them, and spending money from selling oil to buy goods made from this very oil could never be considered a rational investment, not to mention that it made the country rigidly and even cruelly dependent on the exhaustible energy resources prices. Unfortunately, long-term contracts with transnational oil-producing companies didn't allow for a sharp redirection of oil flow onto the internal market, but it was not necessary at the moment. On the contrary, the oil income were to be used to modernize still functioning oil refineries and restoration of several refineries that had been shut down due to low cost-efficiency, and also to build new ultra-modern facilities throughout the country along with all needed support infrastructure like silos, power plants, transport hubs and workers' campuses. Basically, the oil processing industry was to become a locomotive for development of all other fields of industry and social sphere, and after just a few years turn Akbarnistan into a full-fledged Middle Eastern Tiger.

The only downside of the new politics was that oil supply contracts didn't allow to change rates except due to inflation, and initially the required funds would have to be allocated by substantially cutting social benefits and programs. Fareed knew that parliament opposition wouldn't miss the chance to criticize him personally and his cabinet for it, but the latest sociological surveys showed they had a very solid reserve of electoral endurance.

Of course it would be more reasonable to wait for the next elections and only then undertake unpopular measures, but J'quai didn't want to lose two full years. He also hoped his program would be widely supported by Middle Eastern, European, and American eco-activists, and in today's world concerned with environmental issues they were the force to reckoned with. Furthermore, exactly in five years the time would come to review contracts with TNCs and put a question point-blank about lowering export quotas, and by this time Akbarnistanian industry must be fully prepared to accept the surplus amounting to hundreds of thousands barrels per day.

"Oh my…" Fareed mumbled. Even he himself felt startled and confused as he reread the draft, and the ministers invited to the meeting would probably have to drink some sedatives. Of course, all indices and timetables would be reviewed again and again, but the program would remain very and very ambitious even if cut in half. On the other hand, it would be unbecoming for the head of state to issue himself and others simple tasks…

A table-mounted intercom buzzed. "Sayyid Chairman, your helicopter has arrived."

"Thank you, Sarah," Fareed answered his secretary. The documents arranged in order, he came up to the window overlooking the palace backyard and helipads.

A bellied Sea King painted with the country's flag colors, the Akbarnistan's chief helicopter, was landing on one of them at the moment. Thick glasses and frames turned its roar into gentle whisper but couldn't conceal the aura of untamed might the machine emanated. It pressed grass to the ground and made the leaves of surrounding palm trees flutter like laundry on a rope. Still it looked like gentle breeze compared to hurricane caused by takeoffs and landings of Haddahm's personal helicopter, a giant Mil Mi-26 which was now a prominent part of Dubai emir's collection.

Back in the day J'quai was happy to get rid of this monster which General used not only to fly between his palaces but also to interrogate enemies of the regime, many of which were then dropped off over the desert or Farsian Gulf waters. But now Fareed regretted selling the Octopus as the people nicknamed the helicopter for its eight-blade main rotor. No, he didn't forget about atrocities on its board and didn't become infected with his stepfather's gigantomania, although, in all kinds of ways, owning the world's largest helicopter is pleasant and prestigious. It was because Mi-26 was the first robin of the army modernization initiated by Fareed which was going smoothly on paper only.

At first he saw nothing wrong about it. On the contrary, when during his memorable visit to the USA George Logan offered his assistance in equipping the Akbarnistan Armed Forces with the latest machinery, Fareed happily agreed, confident he was making the best possible deal; after all, it was the US Army that inflicted a crushing defeat upon his stepfather's army in the early 90s. Not to mention that after his Peace Tour and signing peace and cooperation treaties with all the dictator's enemies Akbarnistan no longer needed the vast army the maintenance of which cost a great proportion of the country's budget, already scanty due to numerous embargos. Instead Fareed wanted to create a small but highly professional army equipped with the latest technology, like in Europe, which was another reason for rearmament by NATO standards.

But as soon as the process started, it turned out that not only Sea King is smaller than Mi-26, but all delivered equipment fell short of operational characteristics listed in accompanying documents. In particular, it turned out that export modifications of F-16 would be delivered to Akbarnistan equipped with downgraded suite of electronics and less powerful engines, and while upgrade was allowed, it would require additional payment for American, and only American, equipment and work of American, and only American, specialists. Additional costs threatened to eat all money saved from discounts and allowances, so a willed decision was made to give up on it. since the previous generation rockets and bombs delivered from the US didn't require advanced targeting systems.

But while new aircrafts were superior to MiGs and SUs Akbarnistan already had, albeit not as much as Fareed would prefer, small arms replacement led to great embarrassment. The very first maneuvers with new M16A4 assault rifles revealed their inadequacy for desert warfare. Sometimes one gust of wind was enough for sand from the nearest dune to jam into a barrel and gas duct turning a rifle into a high-tech club of metal and plastic, heavy but useless against an enemy two meters away. Annoyed by failures and malfunctions, soldiers rioted and demanded to be given their unassuming and all-forgiving Kalashnikovs back. The visiting Colt representatives avoided meeting with them, but they told the Minister of Defense, a civilian much less prone to fist fighting, that the sold goods couldn't be returned or exchanged. The Minister made Solomon's decision to stall and said nothing concrete, and they parted with no excesses but also with no cigars…

"Sayyid Chairman," Sarah's voice came from the intercom again. "Your daughter and your… press-secretary are here."

"Let them in," Fareed said without turning back and without commenting her eloquent pause. No matter how many rooms you build in the palace, it will still be too small to keep secrets. Especially like romance between him and Ravan, simmering but existing. Strange situation, to be sure, but not as unhealthy as the one with the armaments. During his next visit to the US he told Logan personally exactly that: 'This is unhealthy situation!' Logan thanked him for being vigilant and promised, out of friendship, to rein in those 'rampaging defense industry moguls' and asked him to stay silent for a while and not start a clamor that could hurt the USA. Fareed, also out of friendship and feeling obliged, agreed to do so, but still ordered to postpone decommission of Soviet aircrafts still in service, and also to return tested by both time and sand AKMs to some regiments, in particular National Guard (former Republican Guard) and Parliament Guard (former Special Republican Guard). Everything settled down more or less, but the bad taste still lingered…

"Dad! So what? Are we flying or not?"

"Of course we are!" J'quai turned away from the window and smiled at the ladies entering the room. "I'll be right there, Parie, just copy some files… You can go and take your seats if you wish, I'll be right behind you! Oh, Parie, how did the lesson go?"

He was still finishing the question and Parahk was already out of the room.

"Well, Sayyid J'quai, you shouldn't do it," Ravan smile. "Don't you know it's impolite to ask girls about their age and grades?"

"I do now," Fareed had to admit. "But, just between the two us, did she fare well?"

"Doctor Alvan said that Parahk still has much to learn, but she's trying hard so he's pleased with her."

"Good. Thank you very much for your help, I… I'm afraid I can't spend as much time with her as I previously did, there's so much work to do… Oh, here's my speech. Maybe it' a bit flavorless but—"

"Don't worry, I'll check everything!" Ravan took the presented folder. "I won't let them go out to them unarmed! Oh, and a digital version…"

"Oh, right!" Fareed went to the computer and fetched a large silver cylinder on a black strap out of his pocket. It was a one terabyte flash drive, gift from President Logan. It had antishock and EMP-proof casing and a built-in cryptosecurity system which allowed reading data only on computers with decryption utility installed. There were only two of those in the world: the desktop in Fareed's working cabinet and his notebook which he usually kept there, too. Quickly copying the speech for the opening ceremony and the program document for 'New Industrial Policy', Chairman turned his computer off, picked up the notebook and headed to the door, but the intercom buzzed for the third time. "Sayyid Chairman, President Logan is calling. Should I redirect the call to the helicopter?"

"Yes, Sarah… Although, wait!" the conversation was likely revolve around the TV show, and thus he didn't want Parahk to be around. "I'll answer here."

"Should I wait?" the press secretary asked.

"No-no, Ravan, go to the helicopter. This way I'll know that Parie is in good hands."

"Good," the woman nodded understandingly and left. J'quai picked up the receiver of a separate phone for top-level communication. "Chairman J'quai is here."

"Good day, Chairman, it's Logan." It was clear from the US President's voice that in the last three days he had slept as many hours as you could count on one hand.

Fareed glanced at the wall where a clock showing Washington time hang. "Good evening, Mister President."

"I wish it was…" Logan hemmed. "I've got bad news, Fareed. There was an attempt on that reporter's, Blather's, life."

"So the explosion in his house wasn't an accident?"

"Explosion? Oh, that's another matter. He was abducted and thrown into a river."

J'quai thought he should sit down. "Thrown into a river? Do you know who did it?"

"Looks like our old friends, the Black Table."

"I see…" the leader of Akbarnistan squeezed a thick shielded cable connecting the receiver with the phone. It looked archaic, but it was the best possible protection from surveillance. "So it's all true?"

"We don't know yet, but looks that way."

"I see. This Blather, how is he?"

"He survived. By some miracle, but survived. He's at the hospital. It's all for now. My best men are investigating it, I'm sure we'll know more soon. I'll keep you updated."

"Thanks, George. Take care! What if they decide to, well, make another attempt?"

"I know, I know, my security people keep saying it to me the whole day!" Logan made a forced laugh. "You be on your guard, too. After all, we don't know for sure who was their target."

Chilled, Fareed run up to the window, but everything was fine out there. Parliament Guards with their rifles atilt stood along the perimeter of the yard, with ten more of them stationed along the road Ravan and Parahk were walking. They held hands, spoke of something easily, and for an instant J'quai thought that all soldiers look at them and smile knowingly. Sure, they were too disciplined for that, but the Chairman had to walk away from the window for the illusion to disappear.

"Yes, of course…" he muttered sitting down into the armchair again. "I'll make all the arrangements."

"You do that, Fareed, you must do it. Based on what we already know about this Black Table, it's some sort of assassins syndicate that receives orders for removing unwanted politicians and businessmen, including the top-ranked. And while you have less enemies than your stepfather, you have them nevertheless."

"I know," Fareed nodded in agreement. "I know it well. Thank you for calling and warning me. Goodbye."

"Have a nice day, Fareed."

"Good night, George."

President of the US hang up, but J'quai had time to hear his constrained laughter. Yes, Logan could only dream of good night's sleep at the moment…

Just like him, for that matter.

Tucking the notebook under his arm, Fareed headed to the door but didn't reach it again. This time, though, he was topped not by selector but by a much louder sound, as if a book falling on the floor behind him. A book so large that the floor shook. But there were no such books in his cabinet…

The Chairman turned around abruptly. There was nothing on the floor. But behind the window…

"Sayyid J'quai!" Sarah ran into the room. "Sayyid J'quai, what hap— ALLAH THE ALMIGHTY! What is it? How is it? How could it…"

Paying no attention to her lament, Fareed slowly came up to the window. He absent-mindedly put the notebook back on his table's edge while passing by it, but missed and the notebook slid down on the floor. A thick pile of carpet dampened the sound, but even if it had fallen with a rumble of nuclear explosion J'quai wouldn't have heard it. He heard and saw nothing but the flames consuming the remains of the chief helicopter.

"Sayyid Chairman! Sayyid Chairman!" the people from the nearest rooms ran into the cabinet. "Thank Allah, you're here! You're alive!"

Fareed slowly turned around and looked about the crowd gathered on the threshold. Everybody was here: guards stationed in the corridor, workers of his secretariat, employees from the adjacent sections… But somebody was missing. Somebody who, in contrast to him, had gone there.

He turned to the window again, and his harrowing, heart-rending yell shook the room.

"PARA-A-A-A-AHK!"

* 24 *

The incident with Stan Blather took place in Hudson County, so he was delivered not just anywhere but to the Jersey City Medical Center. At the turn of the century the State of New Jersey designated it as a regional trauma center so it had everything required to give a first aid to victims of catastrophes and accidents. Fortunately for the reporter and his insurance company, he need no expensive analyses or procedures. X-ray and examination revealed head injury, dislocation of right shoulder, and a closed non-displaced rib fracture which didn't threaten patient's life in any way. Thus the medics' work was finished, but the real Battle for Blather was only beginning…

"This is our case!" FBI agent Sanchez hissed loudly. He wanted to yell but he didn't want to be thrown out by the hospital security. Truth be told, he was really scared of it. Not because of darkness and cold, to be sure, but because of cameras and microphones. Less than an hour after Blather's admittance the reporters were already here. It was unclear how they found out that his famous colleague was here so quickly, and it made the situation even more tense.

"It's not anymore," Howard Salinger, a handsome young man with slightly longer hair than one could expect from a Secret Service agent, answered as confidently as an hour ago when he came here from Newark.

"Prove it!"

"Special agent Branson, the head of the investigation, has all the documents. He's on his way here and will arrive any minute."

"We've already heard it an hour ago!"

"Mister Berg, please, calm down you colleague," Ernest Davenport asked Sanchez's partner. Seasoned federal agent wasn't the one who humbly obeys commands of representatives of competing agencies, but Davenport was an exception from this rule. Ernie was one of NCS officers sent to FBI field offices after 9/11 events to improve cooperation between counter-terrorist departments of law enforcement agencies and the CIA, and after a few years of working side by side with Berg and Sanchez they became so close buddies as subordination allowed. Also the intelligence officer was right, and the Latin American's hotheadedness only made things worse. So Berg ordered in a low voice: "Calm down, Raul. That's not the way to do things. Right, gentlemen?"

"Right," the fifth participant of the conversation, Lieutenant Ron Kramer from the homicide squad of the local police department, agreed. "Especially here, in Jersey City, which—"

"You and your people represent here," Berg finished for him. "We remember it. We also remember that it's your men who are withstanding the press attack at the moment, and we are very thankful for that. But our thanks will be limitless if you continue to do your job, that is, holding the perimeter, and stop interfering into our investigation."

The police officer was unmoved by his address. "You forgot to mention one thing. It was our officers who determined what exactly happened to Mister Blather."

Sanchez snorted. "That's no big deal! Not only all the people who were on Pulaski Skybridge called you, but the criminals stopped right under the surveillance camera! It's luck, not work!"

"Still, your men didn't do even this," Kramer countered. "Of course, me and my men greatly appreciate gratitude of such solid organization as the Bureau, but the fact is that crimes committed on the territory of Jersey City are investigated by our police department, so—"

"What does your darned Jersey City have to do with?!" Sanchez exploded again and winced when his partner shoved him with his elbow. "What, Evan?! You will just stand there watching this outrage?!"

"If anyone's making an outrage here, it's you, Raul, while me and detective are just having a small misunderstanding here," Berg deliberately did not mention Salinger showing he didn't consider him a serious contender. Howard paid no attention to this indirect insult. "You see, Mister Kramer, the incident with Blather is no ordinary accident…"

"I know," Kramer interrupted. "I've never met suiciders prudently tying their own hands and legs."

"I will continue, if you please. So, this attempt on his life is another episode in the case of the building destruction in Washington that is jointly investigated by FBI and NCS…"

"Was," the Secret Service representative corrected Berg. "We're investigating it now."

"With all due respect, Agent Salinger," it was clear from Evan's voice there were no respect at all, "my mother taught me never to take strangers' words for granted. So until I see an appropriate paper—"

"Thanks for reminding," the police officer intervened again and deigned to look at Howard articulately. Like everyone else, he considered that the special agent was sent here just to indicate Secret Service's involvement into the investigation. Just as Kramer himself was, for you must be an idiot not to know who would get such an important case in the end. But if you wouldn't show enough interest in it, someone could suspect that Jersey City Police Department didn't care what was happening on its beholden territory. Who needed that? Right, no one. So he had to swagger and demonstrate impregnability. "You're right, Agent Berg, Mister Salinger hasn't shown us any papers supporting his claim yet."

"You'll have them," Howard assured him.

"I don't doubt it," the police officer smiled condescendingly. This Salinger guy was overacting badly. Using one of law loopholes, playing on unconformity between federal and state laws, jurisdiction conflict, and other funny things which only very expensive lawyers could untangle was one thing. But shameless bluff which looked impressive but could be called easily leaving you high and dry and making your superiors fools was another. Nobody likes to be made a fool, especially by their subordinates…

"Thing is, gentlemen," Kramer spoke to Berg and Davenport again, "you have no authority as of yet, too. First, the kidnappers didn't cross the state border, so it can't be considered a federal offense. Second, there is no proof that the attempt on Mister Blather's life is directly linked with the yesterday's explosion at the moment. And thus—"

"No way!" Raul's eyes bulged out. "The link is obvious! Have you all hit your heads here?!"

"One more word, Agent Sanchez, and I'll arrest you for contempt of the police officer on duty!" Kramer threatened. "I perfectly understand that everything looks that way and, most probably, it is that way, but you know better than me that the episodes are considered unconnected until proven otherwise."

Sanchez snorted. "Nonsense!"

Berg put it differently. "Do you believe you own words, Detective? I want to remind you that we have an audiotape proving that Mister Blather was abducted by members of the Black Table."

"Really?" Kramer was sincerely surprised. "If memory serves me, those two said they were Secret Service agents, and the Black Table is never mentioned."

"You want to say that Secret Service tried to murder Mister Blather?" Salinger asked.

"No. That someone tried to murder him, and they could be anyone."

"Like who?" the Latin American tilted his head. "Illuminati? Yakuza? KGB?"

"You should ask Mister Blather about it," Kramer nodded at the door to the left down the corridor with a speckled group of low-rank employees of the four agencies gathered under it who were stationed there to guard the reporter's ward from the criminals and one another. There were three couples: a FBI agent and a NCS agent; two Secret Service agents, and two policemen, a plain-cloth detective accompanying Kramer and a uniformed patrol officer recalled from the perimeter to even the numbers. One representative of each team watched the negotiations closely, while the rest, silently and with impenetrable faces, fought over strategic positions by the door so that they could either storm the ward by their superiors' command or block the entrance.

Still, the probability of the heavy-handed option was close to zero. First, the largest force was the police who had inbred disdain toward white collars from federal agencies and would happily arrest all of them for breach of public order just to show who reigned the streets. Second, no matter how many police officers were here, there were much more patients and doctors and a collective action about interfering with functioning of a large medical facility meant a certain political death. Third, although the preliminary diagnosis stated that patient Blather was in generally good condition and was able to answer questions, it was impossible to question him at the moment.

As soon as the people with badges showed up, the reporter not just came to life, he exploded with it. He shouted that he was surrounded by enemies, who want not just kill him but destroy him in a way that's beyond cold, and begged a duty doctor not to leave him to his fate in hands of enemy agents whom he tried to ward off with his pillow, blanket, the aforementioned duty doctor and citations from the Constitutions and Bill of Rights. The doctor was forced to diagnose deep post-traumatic shock, prescribe him complete rest combined with strict confinement to bed and make the strangers leave the room. From that moment on only he and a duty nurse could enter the ward, and ten minutes ago the nurse told them that Mister Blather took a sedative and fell asleep.

Not that anybody was really happy about it, but it suited everyone, even the joint FBI-NCS team. Personally Evan Berg was angry when Blather refused to talk to him for the second time in a row, and when the Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere demanding to hand the case over to them he became infuriated. But he was too smart to try and question such an important witness in the competitors' presence, and by the time Blather should wake up the high commanders should determine who would investigate the case and who would recall his agents away. Davenport, Kramer, and Salinger thought the same and saw their argument as a way to kill time and an opportunity to get some virtual points of personal and organizational prestige, and, if they got lucky, even wheedle some grains of information out of their opponents. Only Sanchez was too inexperienced to take everything at face value, but if you saw the bigger picture it was even funnier this way.

Dale didn't see the bigger picture and quickly became tired of the endless stream of all these intricacies, rebuffing, and bureaucratic clichés which differed greatly from dynamic and witty dialogues from popular police action movies. Having come to a decision that he wouldn't hear anything more interesting than 'Illuminati' today, he left his observation post at the ceiling ventilation grate in the corridor and used the already familiar route to get to another grate above Blather's bed. Here he could be sure he would miss nothing important, but it wasn't the main reason to come here. It was the first occasion in a very long time when he was alone and he was finally able to recall the events of the last two days and try to determine how it all happened and what he should do next.

It didn't turn out that way.

"DALE!" a piercing scream on the verge of a hearing range stuffed the chipmunk's ears up. Usually he could detect his girlfriend's approach by rhythmic ultrasonic pings but this time they got lost among the beeping of the medical equipment.

"Foxy?!" Dale jumped up on his rear legs and turned his head in all directions. "It's you?! Where are you?!"

"I'm here, dear!" the answer came from the darkness, and the chipmunk barely had time to turn in that direction when he found himself on the floor pinned down by the lily-eyed bat. "Missed me?"

"Very," Dale lied moving his abdomen.

Foxglove took the hint and flew upwards allowing him to get up. "How is he?" she waved her wing in Blather's direction.

"Looks okay to me," the chipmunk answered curtly while shaking off. "Sleeping."

"What about the police?"

"He sent them packing, they're goofing off in the corridor."

"Oh, great! So I missed nothing!"

"You could say that. How did you get here?"

"Flew through the sky, how else?"

"Flew? What about the Rangermobile? You left it there?"

"Rangermobile…" Foxglove repeated. Her nostrils widened, her breathing accelerated, and Dale realized he had said something wrong. "Rangermobile, you say…"

"Foxy—"

"That's what you care about, do you?" the bat continued as she threateningly moved towards the offender. "So you do care about the Rangermobile. And what about me? How about caring about me? Have you thought of me at all?"

The bat's fangs glistened less than an inch away from the chipmunk's eyes, and Dale closed his eyes instinctively. But bite didn't come. Snorting in a bad temper, Foxglove turned away and sat on the edge of the grate with her paws dangling and her wings wrapped around her.

"Foxy," Dale called, but she didn't even flinch. A crazy idea to run away occurred to him for a moment, but he knew he would never hide from Foxglove in a dark tunnel. He had to put his cards on a table…

He rose and carefully approached the female Ranger hunched over the dropping. "Foxy, listen—"

"Do you love me, Dale?"

_Here we go again… _"Foxy—"

"Tell me, Dale!"

"I've told you today—"

"NO!" Foxglove turned her tearful face to him. "You haven't! You haven't said it! You… You said nothing! You noticed nothing!"

"What I didn't notice?" Dale was confused.

Foxglove silently got up, turned to him and spread her wings. "Come on!" She demanded. "Tell me what you see!"

"Erhm, well…" Dale rubbed his eyes with his fists to be sure. "I see you."

"And the jumpsuit? Do you see my jumpsuit!?"

"I see jumpsuit, too. Nice jumpsuit. What about it?"

"_What about it?_" Foxglove repeated in a mocking tone. "I'll tell you! It's PINK!"

"Pink?" Dale asked. The bat turned her side to the grate to allow more light to fall onto her, and Dale saw that it was pink indeed. "Wow, it's really pink! Oh, wait, you wore a purple before…"

"EXACTLY!" Foxglove announced with a tragic solemnity. "That's it! I wore the purple one! And I'm wearing the pink one now! I put it on for the first time today! And you… you didn't even notice!"

"Well, you didn't notice what I am wearing, too!" the chipmunk snarled tugging his tee's collar in an emphatic manner.

"I did!"

"Did not!"

"I did!"

"Did not!"

"I did, I said!" Foxglove stomped her foot with all her might.

"Why you said nothing, then?" Dale pressed on.

"Because Fishburn told me everything! About you jumping on the speedboat's deck, falling into the bay, asking for his cap because you were wet and cold! When I heard it, I imagined you shivering with cold and almost froze on the spot myself! And you… you…"

"And me…" Dale stopped short and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "And me… And me what?"

"That's it! What? What's going on, dear? What happened? What's wrong with you?"

_With me!? I'll tell you!_ the chipmunk was about to shout but then he looked at Foxglove and for the first time grew really scared of what he saw. He grew really scared of her golden flamy eyes, her icy sparkling fangs, crude fabric of her wing webs, her threateningly sharp claws and, most of all, what it all could do if unleashed…

No, he couldn't take risks. He couldn't risk THAT.

There was only one option: behave as if nothing supernatural happened.

"Nothing, Foxy," Dale began thinking each of his phrases and emotions over. Chip called Foxglove 'a flying lie detector' not because of her beautiful eyes and large ears. "It's just, well… It happened so fast! We just caught up with Capone, and here's Blather falling! I didn't have time to say goodbye to the guys!"

"You did have time to say goodbye," Foxglove hissed folding her wings and looking away. "You didn't have time for me, though…"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you didn't remember about me at all! When I asked Fishburn what you asked him to tell me, what did he answer? Nothing. That's what he said: 'Nothing.' Nothing! Nothing at all! I… I had no idea what to do! If Dozer hadn't remembered what hospital the ambulance that carried you away came from, I'd still be flying about the city like crazy! I feared for you! And also…" Foxglove sobbed and blotted her eyes with a corner of her wing. "And also I was ashamed. I felt abandoned, unneeded… Why, why did you do that for me?"

_And why did you do _that_ to me?_ Dale asked his girlfriend mentally, lowering his eyes so as not to betray his feelings. He was usually fast to come up with various excuses and fudges, sometimes quite elaborate, but presently his imagination failed him. _Well,_ he thought, _I'll start with the truth and then we'll see how it goes… _

"Foxy-girl, you see, well, you're right, yes, I had to time to say goodbye, true, but, well, actually, it was hard for me."

"What was so hard for you?" Foxglove asked in acidic voice.

"Well, this thing, saying goodbye. You know, when I told the guys we had to part, they, they…" Dale waved his hands as if helping his words to come out. "They asked what they should do now, that is, without me. And suddenly I felt myself being, uhm, cesspool! No, wait… Samsung! No, stop, it's wrong again… Oh my, what's the word… Ah! I got it! Sensei! Yeah, right, like in all those karate action movies! They always have that most touching scene when the master says goodbye to his student, tells him all those wisdoms, and the student is grieving, feeling bad, not knowing how he'll live without his sensei now… And I… Oh boy, I've never felt like that before! Nobody ever looked at me that way, treated me like an authority figure, like a teacher, like a paragon! I… I almost cried there and, well, I thought I should leave fast, before they saw it. And, well, somehow, because of it, so…"

"Oh, Dale!" the bat sobbed again, but this time fondly, not sadly. "I couldn't even think… I… Oh my, I didn't even say them some suitable words… What will they think of me now?"

"Forget it, everything will be fine!" Dale exclaimed merrily, happy to have managed to direct the conversation along a safe path. "Next week we were going to part with them anyways, and it turned out even better this way. Successful operation, defeated criminals — great ending! By the way, did you find anything there, in the dungeon?"

Foxglove shook her head. "No, there was no one there, that bandit didn't lie."

"And secret caches?"

"No caches, too. But there was everything else: gold, diamonds, jewelry. Full set."

"Really? Great!" the chipmunk started jumping happily. "Now Fishburn and his team will have work to do! Just imagine how many cases about jewelry stores thefts we solved!"

The bat sighed. "Less than we'd like. We had to give most of it to those cats."

Dale's eyes popped out. "What?! How?! Why?!"

"Because those jewelry belonged to them. That is, to the Siamese Twins. It was marked with their emblem, we checked it. And returned it to the rightful owners."

"Oh dear… And what about those Asian mice?"

"The cats took them, too. Or rather, they went with the cats. With or without the cats, they were going to Chinatown, to their brethren, so it was even safer that way. The cats will protect them from anyone."

"My oh my…" Dale muttered. "What a twist. So we saved a heap of gold for the Siamese Twins, or even gifted it to them!"

"Well," Foxglove shrugged tentatively, " maybe it's better then leave it to Capone…"

"Yes, maybe," Dale agreed. "The evil is punished, and that's what's important, right?"

"Almost."

Dale grew agitated. "Why almost? Did I miss something?"

"Remember the Capone's lair? I even asked you if those containers' placement seemed strange to you?"

"Yeah, I remember now. Probably the craneman was drunk that day and his trick didn't work out."

Now Foxglove's eyes popped out. "What are you talking about? All the seaports are automated these days, you won't press a button if a system doesn't allow you to! Somebody messed with the central computer!"

Dale had stopped being amazed by his winged partner's expertise in the field of information technologies a long time, so he didn't object. "So Capone is a hacker now, too?"

"Capone?" Foxglove creased expressively. "Don't make me laugh! Capone is one heck of a dummy. It was clearly the work of a professional! One of the captured said that about three months ago a mouse guy appeared in their gang for a short time, and Capone literally carried him everywhere! And soon they moved to the lair where we caught them! Everything sums up!"

"Maybe we've already got this guy? We captured a whole bunch of them there!"

"I'm telling you, he was there for a short time only! I also spoke to everyone there, used a couple of shoppy terms and slang phrases, but no one reacted. It was someone from the outside, hired for a one-time job. It's common. Low risk, even less traces."

Dale stomped his foot in desperation. "I knew I had to send Dozer after those three! What do we do now? Can we find him at all?"

"I think we can. And we need! Who knows what he will be asked to hack the next time? Animal hacker is hundred times more dangerous than a human hacker! He can easily do what the human will refuse out of ethical concerns, like blowing up a nuclear plant or worse!"

Dale, wizened by comic books and action movies, didn't share his girlfriend's belief in humans, but he was too scared to argue. "You mean we'll all die?" he gulped nervously and grew pale to the last hair on his wisp.

Foxglove mad a muffled giggle. "Don't be afraid, cutie, I'll stand up for you!" she came up to the chipmunk and put her wings on his shoulders. "You believe me?"

"Yeah, maybe…" Dale stuttered drawing back instinctively.

But Foxglove didn't give up until she pressed her muzzle to his nose and their kiss happened. It turned out short and clearly forced, though, and the bat noticed it. "What's wrong with you, cutie?" she asked staring tensely into his face. "You are behaving strange as of late. How about explanation? Is it because of me? I did something wrong? I'm sorry if I did…"

"No, of course not!" Dale shook his head heartily to avoid meeting her gaze. "I just… Well…"

"You love me no more?"

"Who, me!?" Dale laughed loudly twice. "Of course not! Why would I?"

"Well, I don't know… You became colder, you're nervous all the time, you don't kiss me like you did before… You remember about us planning to marry this Autumn?"

"Marry?!" Dale shuddered. "Wow… Oh… Well, but…"

Foxglove's lower lip began to shake. "You… you don't want to? You changed your mind? But I… But why? Why, Dale-boy!?"

"Well, you see, erhm, it's…" Dale tried hard to come up with some elaborate answer but in the end he told the truth. "It's because of Gadget. And Chip. Because of them, yeah!"

"And what's wrong with them?"

"Well… They still, uhm… They still don't have anybody."

"You mean children?"

"Yeah, about them! I'm, well, worried…"

"I see," Foxglove nodded. "Actually, it surprises me, too. They love each other so much, and they are genetically compatible…"

"Yes, yes!" Dale nodded. "Exactly! And we are…"

"Yes, we are not. But Gadget said she'll design something like that thing that swapped your bodies. She helped Nimnul repairing it, so much of it…"

"Yes, but… That is, what?! Really?! Wow! She never told me about it!"

Foxglove cast her eyes down. "Well, actually it was our little secret. And a wedding gift. But. as far as I know, she didn't make much progress. Although, if she and Chip still had no children, maybe it didn't quite work out…"

"No, it's not the case!" Dale blurted out. "I mean, all is fine with it!"

"Really? What makes you nervous, then?"

"Foxy, do you remember their wedding?"

"Sure I do! Me and Tammy were maids of honor, and you and Sparky were best men. It was so great! Flowers, congratulations, dancing! And your contrabass solo…" Foxglove wrapped her wings around her, bathing in warm memories. "It was amazing! Wasn't it?"

"Well, surely it was great! Well, mostly. Some of the guests… Hey, it was you who told me you heard some gophers discussing, uhm, the species question…"

"Yes, I heard it," Foxglove confirmed as she began to recall it, too. "But that was the only case!"

"Rather, it was the only case you heard something like that. And even if nobody said it out loud, many of them surely thought that way…"

"So what?" Foxglove shrugged. "Chip and Gadget are made for one another, so the rest of the world would better leave their envy and superstitions to themselves! And they are of the same species now! And everybody knows it!"

"That's it. And those gophers knew it. And they still discussed it. Even though Chip and Gadget are genetically compatible and they are both rodents!"

They were silent for a few seconds.

"I see," Foxglove spoke finally. "You mean I'm not even a rodent…"

"That's a given," Dale waved his hand but immediately corrected himself. "That is, it's not the reason! Not that I refuse, I don't, but… Well, I thought it out and I decided we should wait. The dust hasn't settled after Gadget's and Chip's wedding, and here we come and… I assure you, I don't care what the others think or say about me, it won't change anything, it's just… In short, I have a feeling that when they have children and everybody sees it's perfectly okay and even natural, then we will be able to do it, too… There you go."

Foxglove's disappointed expression changed into a broad smile. "Dale, my love! It's… You're right, I got too carried away and couldn't even think how it looks from your perspective! Why didn't you say it earlier?"

"Well, I dunno…" Dale made a helpless gesture. "What if you… Like…"

"Don't worry, dear, I understand everything!" the bat babbled as she embraced the chipmunk heartily. "You are right, we shouldn't hurry with it! Let it all settle with Chip and Gadget, and then it will be our turn! Everything will be fine! Gadget will built her genesplicer for us, and we'll have a real family with a bunch of kids! How do you think, they will resemble you or me? Or both of us? Oh, I can't wait to see them!"

"Same here…" Dale forced himself say. This perspective made him sweat, and in order to prevent Foxglove to suspect anything he asked the question that truly bothered him. "By the way, did Chip and Gadget call while I was away? There was no news from them since yesterday."

"So that's why you were so worried about the Rangermobile!" Foxglove explained presenting Dale with the best possible excuse on a silver platter. "Because of the phone! And I thought…"

"Yes-yes, right!" Dale interrupted her impatiently. "They called or no?"

"No, they didn't, you know… And what should we do now? I can fly to the HQ, of course…"

_Great idea!_ Dale was about to say, but some new, louder sounds came from the ventilation grate.

"What's going on there?" Foxglove ran to the grate, but Dale grabbed her by the edge of her wing. "It's not in the ward, it's in the corridor! Come, there's another grate there!"

* 25 *

Branson was unpleasantly surprised by reporters standing in line along a service road at the hospital's east gates. The map on the fence suggested that you could get inside through the west gates or via the Grand Street entrance, but the situation was undoubtedly the same there. Trevor didn't want to publicize his arrival, so he had turned his beacon off back when he was entering the city. He had no chances to slip in undetected, though, given his colorful, memorable and widely disseminated face. If he went headlong, without heart or imagination, that is.

Dirtily leaving the journalists freezing under police and hospital security close watch, the special agent turned his car around and drove deeper into cap familiar wilds of Jersey City. He didn't want to drive further than five blocks away from the hospital but had to go at least five blocks more before he spied a pay phone. Either Jersey City removed them because of ever-growing use of mobile phones, or he began to confuse them with wall ads. Not surprising after sleepless day with three and a half hours of driving, it could be worse…

_Enough of that! The more you think of being tired, the more tired you become!_ Trevor reprimanded himself as he approached the pay phone which was apparently cursed. It waggled from side to side and somebody spilled glue over a phone book. No, it opened, but the pages were made of cardboard for some reason. Or something was wrong with his fingers…

_Belay! Everything's under control! I'll find the phone number of this medical center now, whatever it's called…_ Branson furrowed his brow and shut his eyes remembering the hospital's full name. He would probably stood there with his eyes closed until morning if not for a sudden thought that he didn't need the phonebook at all and he should dial 9-1-1 instead. It would be correct strategically and more economically efficient for the calls are free and 25 cents didn't just lay about on the ground. Lay about. What a nice word…

_No! Stop! No words! Only actions! Alright, what do I need here… Okay, nine, one… No, wait. ID first. Yes, that's better. Now it's time to call… Where are you? Why don't you pick up? Are you all asleep there? Asleep… Such a word… _

"Emergency Nine-one-one, this is being recorded."

"Hi! I need an ambulance! I, that is, my father feels bad, looks like heart attack!"

"What's your location?"

"I'm at…" Trevor unstuck his eyelids and tried to read signs on the nearest buildings. "Intersection… Looks like Second Street and… some avenue. It's dark, I can't see clearly… I'm calling from a pay phone, number—"

"We've determined your location. According to our data, you are calling from the pay phone on the intersection of Second Street and Newark Avenue. Is it correct?"

"Yes, Newark Avenue, right! Send someone fast, he's very bad, he's dying! Save him!"

"What's your father's name?"

"Blunt," Branson said the first thing that came to his mind.

"How? Plant?"

"No, Blunt!" Trevor corrected the operator and then wondered why he did it. No matter. John is a softhearted person, he'll forgive him.

"Full name, please!"

"John Blunt. Please, hurry! My dad, he's—"

"Ambulance is on its way. What is your name?"

"My? Robert. Bob. Plant. I mean, Blunt."

"Stay there, Mister Blunt, medics are coming!"

"Thank you…" Branson hang up and pressed his hot forehead into the phone's cool casing. What was the punishment for a fraudulent call? Several thousand dollars fine or a year in prison? This is going to be some really special week…

Hearing sirens approaching, the agent shook his head and walked to meet the approaching ambulance. 'Jersey City Medical City' label above the cabin proved his plan was a success. But the first people he had to deal with were not the paramedics but two police officers escorting the ambulance to make sure this call wasn't an attempt to lure the medical workers into a trap to get drugs or force them to patch up an injured member of a street gang.

"Sir! Please, sir!" one of the officers stepped forward. "You called nine-one-one?"

"Yes, me," the agent slowly raised his hand with his ID he took out in advance. "Trevor Branson, Deputy Head of Presidential Protection, Secret Service."

"Presidential?" the policeman asked mistrustfully. He turned his flashlight on and illuminated the ID and then Branson's face. "There's a similarity…"

"Hey!" one of the paramedics shouted. "You called us? Where's your father?"

"Indeed, sir," the officer looked around and made sure that there were no heart attacks victims in the vicinity of two blocks. "Care to explain what it all means?"

"Of course, officer. I know it's illegal but… No, wait!" Branson rose his hand to stop the officer who reached for his radio. "Please, don't report about me. Moreover, I will be very grateful if you report that it's a real heart attack situation."

"Mister Branson, I hope you understand I need very serious reasons for that?" the patrol officer asked. He didn't take his hand off his radio, but didn't press the button, too, which gave some hope.

"Well," Trevor shrugged helplessly, "I can only say it's a matter of federal importance directly linked to the security of the President. I know, it's an overused formula, but it's the best I can come up with. And it's also true."

"Officer!" the ambulance driver approached the policeman, his face and belly a vivid illustration of sedentary lifestyle's harmful impact on constitution. "What's going on here? Who's this guy?"

The police officer looked at Branson intently again. "It was you on the stage with the President then, right?"

"Exactly," Trevor confirmed. "I know, that speech of mine wasn't very convincing, but, well…"

"Say no more," the officer stopped him and pressed the button on his microphone, "Central, this is one-fifteen. Call verified. Heart attack. Roger."

"Acknowledged, one-fifteen," the radio responded.

The agent breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever you say, a TV star status has its advantages. "I owe you one, officer…"

"Robertson," the policeman introduced himself. "Somehow I feel I'm going to regret this, but I believe you for some reason."

"Hey, wait a minute, what is this?" the ambulance driver's cheeks trembled and he gazed at the 'patient' with trepidation. "Who are you, for god's sake!?"

"Trevor Branson, Secret Service," the agent said his name and showed his badge again. "And your patient."

"Patient?" the fat guy gradually began to understand. "So it was—"

"I'll explain everything," Branson told him as he took his cell phone out. "Just make a call… Oh, one more thing! Officer Robertson!"

"Yes?" the policeman who had already got into his car lowered the glass.

"I have an unusual request for you."

"Go ahead, Agent Branson, I got used to it."

"Can you drive my car to the Medical Center?"

"Of course, no problem!" Robertson gave up his seat to his partner and took the offered keys. "By the way, I didn't want to ask, but since you owe me and even entrust me with your car… It's all because of that reporter, isn't it? We heard it over the radio with Mike."

"Yes, it's because of him. That's why I needed the ambulance. I don't want to appear before the press when unneeded."

"I understand you. Tell me, is it true what he showed in his program?"

"We're investigating it right now," Branson answered. Then he decided that this policeman deserved better than the standard meaningless phrase and added: "But if you want to know my strictly personal opinion, yes."

"Okay, got it," the patrol officer heard more than he expected and didn't press further. "Is this your car?"

"Yes, black Mercury," Branson turned to the ambulance driver. "What is your name?"

"Martin."

"Okay, Martin, let's go."

"You wanted to make a call, no?" the fat guy pointed somewhere downwards.

Trevor followed his gaze and saw the cell phone still clenched in his hand. "Really? Oh, yeah, sure! Thanks for reminding me!"

"Do you feel badly, sir?"

"Just tired, don't pay attention," Branson massaged his nose bridge and dialed Blunt's number. "Johnny, is it you? Where are you?"

"Where am I?" his friend asked in a voice of a man overcome by Prozac. "I'm neck-deep in the process, where else can I be?"

"Did he sign?"

"We are on the stage of extended counseling at the moment."

"Is Gyllenhaal there?"

"He is. Everybody who needs to be there is there, and more. I'm telling you, it's extended counseling."

"Who's winning on points?"

"Not us."

Branson was too tired to swear, so he said three words: "It's not acceptable."

"Wait, it's not that bad. NCS almost agreed to a joint investigation with deepened coordination."

"No, that's not an option. Too many cooks spoil the broth, you know that."

"Well, since legally it's not our case at all, it's a great concession on their side."

"They had plenty of time to solve the case, but they failed. And they also allowed for the information leak. It's their fault!"

"You'll be surprised but they don't agree for some reason. Any ideas?"

"I don't know, come up with something… Oh! Threaten that I'll go out to the journalists, they are aplenty over here. It will work!"

"It won't."

"It will, I'm telling you!"

"Trev, I've spent almost four hours here, and if you think you're the first to threaten it, you're wrong, trust me. It didn't work already."

"Make it work, then!"

"How? By killing all the opponents? I've been thinking of it already."

"Listen, we need this signature."

"I know, that's why I'm grazing my butt here while some people are travelling about the country. Where are you now, by the way?"

"I've arrived."

"Really? Fast."

"Slower than I'd like! Alright, as soon as they sign it, send the copy to…" Branson covered the phone with his palm and turned to Martin. "What's your hospital's fax number?"

"Uhm, just a sec… The phone is two hundred and one, nine-one-five, twenty hundred, and fax is… and fax is the same, but twenty-oh-two in the end! Yeah, that's it!"

"Fax it to hundred and one, nine-one-five, twenty-oh-two. Jersey City's code. It's the local Medical Center. Got it?"

"Almost. What about your fax? You crashed your car again?"

"The car is fine, it's just more convenient this way. Oh, and the most important thing! Address the fax to Special Agent Salinger. Okay, I'm out. You've got ten minutes!"

"What?! You're crazy!" Blunt shouted but Trevor already hang up.

"Johnny? Wasn't it your 'father' by chance?" Martin showed quite a shrewdness.

Branson was prepared for this question, so even his sleepiness couldn't keep him from answering quickly and blankly. "No. Not at all. Let's go meet your colleagues."

After these words any doubts the driver had disappeared, and since he was even poorer at hiding his emotions than sleepy Branson of lying, it was obvious. Still, it didn't affect the readiness of him and his colleagues to help the deputy head of the Presidential Protection Division to sneak into the hospital. In just a minute Trevor was lying on a stretcher fastened with belts and with an oxygen mask on his face, in short, a perfect heart attack victim. The van drove with an appropriate emergency speed, too, and the police officers driving two powerful cars barely managed to keep up. Branson wanted to ask the paramedics to drive slower to give Blunt and Gyllenhaal some more time, but as soon as his head touched the pillow he decided it could wait. Just a little bit. Just a second, no more. Alright, two. Okay, three, maybe four…

"Mister! Hey, Mister! Wake up!"

Trevor needed some time to understand why he was being bothered for he saw the same white ceiling as in the van. "We arrived?" he asked when the mask was removed.

"Long ago!" the paramedic answered as he unclasped the belts.

"And where are we?" the special agent inquired examining a wall covered with lifeless pale green tiles.

"In the morgue!" the second medical worker responded and smiled at his own gag. "I'm joking! We put you in a service corridor to avoid shocking someone with your resurrection. Right, doc?"

Freed from the belts, Branson sat up and only now noticed a man in a white coat standing at the door with utterly bewildered expression.

"Special Agent Branson, Secret Service," Trevor took out his ID preventing any questions and checking at the same time that his phone and gun were present. "I apologize for this performance, but there was no other way."

"But how…" the doctor spoke having understood very little from this short explanation, but Branson could help him no more. According to austere black and white clock above the nearest door he had slept no more than fifteen minutes but his weariness was gone without a trace. The experience told him, however, that its return was only a matter of time, so he had to act fast. "All questions later," he said jumping off the stretcher and exercising his shoulders and neck. "Better tell me how I can get to the fourth floor."

"Elevators are in the lobby—" the doctor began.

"And not through the lobby?" Trevor stopped him.

"Service stairs—"

"Where's that?"

"I'll show you!" the jolly paramedic offered.

"Thanks. And you explain everything to the doctor," Branson ordered the other member of the team that delivered him and went with his guide deep into a labyrinth of service corridors where no guests were allowed in order not to search for them later. They didn't have to go far, it was no Pentagon after all, but they still spent whole three minutes because of a sheer number of turns and Branson asking to walk slower. He would actually prefer to hide in some rarely visited closet until receiving the call from Washington, but he couldn't postpone his public appearance indefinitely. He managed to sneak past the journalists, but too many people knew of his presence here already for it to remain a secret. And also hiding is a clunker's lot.

_Come on, Johnny, you are my only hope!_ Branson addressed his friend who was two hundred miles to the south-west of him at the moment, then forced his face to assume an impassive expression and pushed the fourth floor door.

"Ah, Agent Branson!" Robertson called out having noticed him from far away. "Here are your keys!"

"Thank you, officer!" Branson rakishly tossed the heavy key ring on his palm. "And I wondered where I should look for you."

"And I found you myself!"

"And you found me yourself, yes. Where did you parked it?"

"On the parking near the west exit."

"How did you like the car? Any complaints?"

"Forget it! It's a beast! I've never had such a smooth ride, I couldn't even feel the gear switching!"

"It has a computer-controlled direct shift gearbox."

"Wow!" the patrol officer was amazed beyond limits. "The one with odd and even gears put into separate boxes and activated in pairs? I wish me and Mike had one…"

"Come to us, then! Secret Service needs smart guys!"

"Seriously? You know, I've been thinking—"

"Ahem-ahem!" A loud coughing could be described as polite by a long stretch. "Please, Agent Branson, stop luring our people away and get to the point!"

"Sure thing! You are right, it's wrong to tempt the police officers in front of their colleagues, especially their superiors. Goodbye, Officer Robertson, I hope to see you in our ranks soon!" Branson shook the confused patrol officer's hand and turned to the man who interrupted them. "Lieutenant Ron Kramer, am I right?"

"You are," Kramer confirmed. "I see you are aware of the recent developments."

Trevor shrugged. "News travels fast in murky waters. And you must be Evan Berg and Raul Sanchez from the FBI?"

The Latin American nodded vigorously. "Exactly! FBI! And it's our case, so tell your people to go away before we arrest them for obstructing justice!"

"They obstructed justice?" Branson looked at Salinger questioningly. "Did you obstructed justice, Howard?"

"No," Howard replied. "On the contrary, my men did everything they could to prevent offence—"

"What offence, darn you!?" Sanchez grew indignant. "First you don't allow us to interrogate the victim, and then you blame some offence on us!?"

"The victim refused to talk with you," Howard reminded him.

"And you used it to your advantage immediately! So who's the offender?! If it weren't for you, we'd know everything long ago!"

"I am very sorry," Branson intervened gently, "but, in my humble opinion, you wouldn't have known even his name using this approach. By the way, aren't you some of those FBI agents Mister Blather complained about for the whole nation to hear?"

"He can shove his complaints—"

"RAUL!" Berg intervened. "Stop it! Can't you see what's going on here?!"

"They make fools of us, that's what's going on here! I see everything, so don't—"

"Quiet, Agent Sanchez!" previously silent Davenport joined the conversation. "You understand nothing! It's a well-planned provocation! Right, Agent Branson?"

Trevor grinned. "And I wondered who's calling the shots among the three of you. I was sure it was Mister Berg, but now I have some doubts…"

"You didn't answer the question," the older FBI agent said.

"I'll be happy to answer it if Mister Davenport asks it in court."

"But I'm asking it here and now, on your home turf, so to speak."

Trevor tensed but kept his voice steady. "You mistake me for someone. I never worked in a hospital."

"As a doctor — no. But you know better than me that you can not only heal people in a hospital but also murder them."

Branson clenched his fists, and everybody braced themselves. Salinger moved half a foot to the left, FBI agents moved the same distance to the right. Kramer watched the two emerged poles intently, wondering whether he should order his people to wedge between them now or wait till the fight started.

"What does he mean?" Foxglove asked in whisper.

"I dunno!" Dale answered. "They all speak in riddles. It's a professional mind warping, I'm telling you! It could be much worse than that, I read it at !"

"Careful! You'll fall!" the bat screamed grabbing her beloved by his collar and dragging him away from the grate.

Dale fought as hard as he could. "Let me go! I won't fall! Let me go! The most interesting part is starting!"

Foxglove relented and unclenched her claws, but chipmunks expectations didn't come true, and he didn't saw a battle of specially trained agents using super secret superpowers. Although it was close. Very close…

"Is it some running joke over at the NCS?" Branson broke the silence. "Your agents must learn it to get their salaries?"

"Sneer as much as you like," Ernest said through set teeth. "You don't have much time left."

"Are you threatening me?"

"And what do you think?"

"And who's the provocateur now?"

"I never said you were a provocateur. I said it was a provocation."

"Interesting," Branson crossed his arms on his chest. "And what does it mean?"

"Just what I told. That it's a provocation." Davenport held a five-second pause. "That you are a provocation."

Trevor didn't expect to hear that. "Care to explain?"

Ernest didn't throw down the gauntlet to back off now. "I do. You coming here is a provocation aimed at one thing: to undermine the investigation of the Peace Ceremony incident you are directly involved in. And I'm not speaking about your pathetic attempts to calm down the audience."

This was already enough to report Officer Davenport's exorbitant behavior. Branson also knew what would follow. But he decided not to stop the intelligence officer and let him say it. The more nasty things he would say now, in front of witnesses, the more notable and painful the riposte would be.

If it would be, that is.

_Come on, Johnny, come on!_

"What are you talking about, Mister Davenport?"

"MacMillan's murder."

"Really?" Trevor rounded his eyes. "Don't you watch TV? Your rank doesn't allow it? I thought the whole country knows he was killed by the mouse assassin."

"Mouse assassin?" the NCS officer repeated, smiling unpleasantly. "Come on! Maybe you believe in Santa Claus, too? As for me, I don't believe in him, nor in some killer mice. But I do believe in killings during arrests, when, just for example, a stray bullet hits an oxygen tank. Or not so stray."

"And what option do you prefer?" Branson asked calmly, not flustered by unfriendly eyes directed at him.

"As for me, I incline towards the latter."

"You do? And what is you inclination based on, if I might ask?"

"You mean what proofs I have? If I had them, we wouldn't talk here but in your favorite court."

"In other words, you have no proofs," the agent summarized.

"I don't, yet. But every time I meet you, my inclination becomes stronger."

Branson frowned. "I don't remember meeting you before."

"Not surprising, it's our first meeting. But you and your people are already actively preventing us from investigating the case of the national importance. I wonder why? Or rather, who sent you to do it? In such cases the initiative comes not from perpetrators but from the people watching from the shadows. From the deep black shadows."

"You are suggesting," Branson said slowly, "that I am working for the Black Table?"

"Note, Special Agent, it wasn't me who said that. Although I admit you may not know who you are really working for. Anyone can be a member of the Black Table, even your superiors."

The Secret Service agent smiled cheesily. "You think President Logan is in the Black Table, too?"

"A-ha! And I waited for you to mention him!" Davenport grinned. "And what President Logan got to do with it? You haven't presented any documents Agent Salinger had long being telling us about, mind you. Is he your accomplice? Or you used him blindly, lied to beat the band about the case being transferred to the Secret Service and sent him here to stall for a time? You'll be fine. You ordered a random patrol officer to watch after your car and hid for a time being to appear later riding a white horse and wearing shining armor. Let the low-ranked agents run about, clash with the FBI and bury their careers, for the field agents will be blamed for everything, and the celebrity from the capital city will get away with it. That's what you needed all these people for, didn't you?"

For the first time during the conversation Trevor hesitated with his answer. He had what to say, but he didn't know what exactly to say. Davenport got out of hand, he said many unneeded things and gave his opponents too many trump cards against him. Branson felt an urge to say 'I'll meet you at court!' but he didn't want to entangle himself with participation in a long and scandalous process during which all the dirt Davenport had gathered would flow over to the newspapers and Internet blogs. He needed to take the offender down a peg now and in such a way that would discourage him and his colleagues from hurling their evidence-free accusations.

Usually a combination of a kind word and a gun was the most helpful, but at the moment it wasn't an option and a kind word alone would have to do. Or unkind. Or neutral. Like those that came from a wall speaker. "Secret Service Special Agent Howard Salinger, please come to the reception desk! Secret Service Special Agent Howard Salinger, please come to the reception desk!"

"Well, Howard, why are you still here? Go!" Branson prodded his slightly dumbfounded subordinate and explained addressing mainly Davenport who stood still with a grin glued to his face. "I recall you asking me what I needed my people for. Here's your answer. It just happened so that I'm here more or less incognito and all the incoming correspondence is addressed for Agent Salinger. And speaking of Officer Robertson whom you humiliated for no particular reason, I didn't tell him to watch after my car, as you deigned put it, but asked him to drive it to the hospital parking lot. Yes, it's not a difficult task, but it's important and sensitive enough so as not to entrust just anybody with it, including, to my great regret, some of those present here. Can you guess whom I am talking about, Officer Davenport?"

The NCS agent spent his bile and fervor almost entirely and needed time to regenerate them, but Salinger came back before that.

"So, what is it?" Branson asked hiding his hands behind his back to not let anybody see them shaking.

"If an opinion of a simple field agent is worth anything, then everything is fine," Howard answered casting a gaze full of spite at Davenport. Somewhat relieved by his words, Branson took the received printout and read it until he was sure his eyes weren't lying to him and the things he wanted to see were written there indeed.

"Well, gentlemen," at last Trevor could afford a triumphant smile and victorious voice. "I remember you asking me and my colleague to present certain documents confirming our words and status. Due to the reasons independent from us we received those only now and we are immediately informing you about it and offer you to study them personally. You are welcome!"

"Now that was a way to put it!" Kramer grinned. He stood nearest to Branson and was the first in line for reading. "But it the paper doesn't lie, you have all the rights for it. Well, it was an honor, as they say!"

"It's mutual, Lieutenant!" Branson shook the extended hand. "But I have one more thing to ask you—"

"No need to say anything, Agent Branson. Me or my people never saw you here."

"That goes without saying and that's not what I wanted. As you can see, I have too few men to fight the press downstairs…"

"Don't worry, our boys will do that!" Lieutenant assured him having really liked Branson reaction to the attack on his patrol officer. He waved his men to follow him, handed the document over to Berg and left with dignity.

"And what would you say?" Trevor asked the remaining competitors grabbing the print with all their six hands at once.

"It reads that Secret Service is investigating this case since 10 PM," Berg tapped the paper with his finger. "Even before they dragged Mister Blather out of the river."

"And what bothers you?" the Presidential guard wondered. "Wasn't Agent Salinger telling you the same all this time?"

"Drop it, Mister Branson, this paper smells so hard with backdating that—"

"That's right!" Sanchez interrupted his partner. "If you think we'll believe this fake you're badly wrong!"

As soon as his mouth closed the silence of hospital corridors was broken by sounds of two simultaneously ringing cell phones. The first with a standard rhythmic chime belonged to Berg, while the second, with starting chords of 'Yankee Doodle' song set as its ringtone, was Davenport's.

"You should change the melody, or enemies will uncover you!" Branson observed. The NCS agent didn't bother to answer him and went to the window along with Berg. They stood separately and looked in opposite directions, but it seemed they were speaking with the same person.

"Good evening, sir. …Yes, sir. …I received it, sir. …I read it, sir. …I understand, sir. …Clear, sir. …Of course, sir. …Thank you, sir. …Good night, sir."

"Any other questions?" Trevor asked for good measure when they came back.

"Just two," NCS officer said. "How did you do that and why do you think you'll get away with it?"

"I know nothing about the former," it was true for Branson had no idea how Blunt and Gyllenhaal did it. "As for the latter, I've got nothing to do with it. The document is signed by the President, the Director of national intelligence, the Attorney General and the Secretary of homeland security. You consider all of them members of the Black Table? Or only Special Agent Coolidge and Officer Cunningham? And I found them to be honest people and dedicated professionals."

Berg's and Davenport's faces showed he hit the mark. Sanchez remained unyielding, though. "I bet you read those names from this very fax!"

"And if I told you that Agent Coolidge's first name is Walter, and Officer Cunningham's is Robert?" Branson inquired. "They aren't mentioned in the fax. I can also give detailed description of their appearance, voice pitch, speaking manner and their most telltale gestures, but I don't think it's really necessary. After all, what is there to complain about? We take only Blather and the Peace Ceremony, and the act of terrorism in Washington is still yours. It's fair, as for me. Even your bosses agreed with it."

"Yeah, agreed," Raul chuckled. "Try not to agree with your back to the wall and dates are tampered with."

"You think bad of Special Agent Coolidge, Mister Sanchez, but your partner will tell you more on this. And concerning date and time, trust me, it's better for everyone, especially for you. If we wrote the current time there, then it would mean you wasted four hours but couldn't question Mister Blather, which is horrendous incompetence."

"WHAT?!" Sanchez shouted. "You sent your people to interfere, and now you call us incompetent?"

Branson smiled. "But it is incompetence. Turns out, anyone can come, lie to you and make you do everything you are told. If my men had no right to be here, you were obliged to force them to leave. But you didn't do that for some reason."

Raul was breathing hard like a raging young bull. Davenport's eyes became bloodshots from his impotent anger. Only Berg, the eldest and the most experienced of them, smiled faintly. "Nice," he nodded acknowledging defeat. "Very nice. Well, Agent Branson, I've got no more questions. I hope you'll look for the criminals as zealous as you fought against friends. Good luck."

"You too, Evan," Trevor nodded taking the print back and shaking the FBI agent's dry palm.

"Good luck," Sanchez said through set teeth as he squeezed Branson's hand with all his might. Trevor did the same, and the young FBI agent barely held his scream.

"You too, lad," Trevor wished him with a smile. Letting Raul wincing with pain go, he pretended not to notice Davenport's extended hand and slapped his back unceremoniously. "Don't you worry, officer, nobody will know about your behavior, I'll look after it."

"You'll dearly regret it," Ernest said in a low voice. "I'll get you."

"In this case I want to ask you a small favor. Don't wear white socks with black shoes to our meeting, okay?"

"I'd never—" Davenport pulled his trouser leg up, saw a dark grey sock and realized he was tricked. But it was too late. An FBI agent accompanying Berg and Sanchez snickered. Davenport's aide kept a blank expression but it was obvious that all their and Ernest's colleagues would hear about the incident. That wouldn't make them love Branson any more, but it would undoubtedly become a part of their work lore and a bodeful reminder not to mess with Secret Service.

"Gotcha!" Trevor laughed and slapped his offender's back again almost making him to roll down the corridor. "You are a jolly guy, Ernie! Don't you want to join us? You'll really brighten our daily grind."

Davenport dashed forward so fast he reached the elevator before the FBI agents who had already passed three quarters of the distance. Grinning Branson stood in the middle of the corridor until the last representative of the competitive agencies left the floor, and then he sat down on a bench with a sigh finally letting Dale and Foxglove to see his face.

"Hey! I know that guy!" Dale exclaimed. "I saw him at the Capitol! He's from the President's security! He was on TV yesterday, remember?"

"Dale, wait!" Foxglove tried to cool his enthusiasm down. "What if that Davenport guy is right? What if he's really working for the Black Table?"

Dale waved her off. "For the Black Table? Him? Don't make me laugh! How the guy who looks like Will Smith can be bad? You saw how he outsmarted all those windbags? Classy! No, he's a true action hero!"

Howard Salinger couldn't hear him, but his thoughts were exactly the same. "Mister Branson! That was amazing! You just buried that Davenport! I would have kicked his butt long ago, but you… Such a reservation, such a calculation, such an effect! How did you calculated the fax arrival time so accurately? How? Please, Mister Branson, explain! Mister Branson!" When he saw his boss limply dropping his head on his chest, the agent became really alarmed. "Mister Branson, are you alright? Mister Branson!"

"Alright, I'm alright…" Trevor lifted his face and Salinger saw not a hawkish profile of a powerful overthrower but a dingy face of an endlessly tired man spying the word throw his barely raised eyelids. "Tell me, Howard, do they make coffee in this hospital?"

"Probably, I don't know… They should at the dining hall, I think, plus I saw a couple of vending machines…"

"A vending machine will do. If it's no bother."

"Sure it's not!"

"Then choose the strongest and take two."

"Are you really okay? I can call a doctor, since we're in the hospital anyway."

"No, no doctor is needed. I'm alright. Just tired. Professional insomnia." Branson yawned mightily to confirm his words, and Salinger immediately followed suit. "Okay, Howard, go before I infected you completely. And you'd better take a pair of cups for yourself, we've got plenty of work to do tonight."

"Got it!" Salinger left. Branson fought another yawn and took out his cell phone. Digits and letters looked like shapeless blots, but in his present condition he would be unable to remember the needed number anyway. Another proof that they should erect lifetime monuments to the inventors of the built-in phone books.

After fifth ring Trevor felt sorry for calling but it was too late to retreat after the sixth.

"Hello…"

"Johnny? It's Trevor."

"I thought so."

"And I didn't think, I'm sorry."

"Forget it."

"Thank you. I don't know how you did it, but it was great. And very timely. Thank you."

"Not at all. You owe me tickets for Wizards' game."

"Got it."

"Best seats."

"None other."

"And for Gyllenhaal, too, Trev, I wouldn't have made it alone."

"You'll make me bankrupt. Alright, I'll do what I can."

"Do your best."

"I will. Thanks again. Sorry for waking you up."

"It's OK, I was having some really weird dream. Good night."

Branson smiled. "Don't be a worrywart!"

John laughed knowingly and hang up. Salinger was nowhere to be seen, and Trevor started to fight his sleepiness with a shocking therapy. He got up, stretched till his joints creaked and went to meet the agents guarding the Blather's ward.

"Weakling!" Dale commented on his unsteady pace. "I feel better even after horror movie marathon! And this man is protecting the President! Looks like the whole world rests on us Rescue Rangers alone!"

"Sure thing, cutie!" Foxglove agreed, although she thought that 'Rescue Rangers' part was really unneeded. "This world desperately lacks the love that's burning between us!"

Embracing Dale with her wings, she rubbed her nose against his cheek. The chipmunk felt deep sorrow for the world and all its dwellers, but then Salinger returned and they had more important tasks at hand. The delivered coffee became invigorating oiling for stalling gears of the criminal investigation, so they had to run to another grate using all their legs or wings in order to miss none of refreshed Branson's commands.

"Here's the plan, boys. Your task is to stand here and let nobody into the ward. Neither nurses, nor nannies, nor Doctor Manhattan! And you, Howard, will go with me and meet our friend's attending doctor."

Despite his solid age and vast experience of talking to patients, the duty doctor wasn't a misanthrope and met the agents at dagger point. "No, no, and no again!" he said dismissively. "You can't interrogate Mister Blather!"

"Really?" Trevor raised his brows and nodded at Salinger standing beside him. "And my people claim you allowed the FBI agents to do it."

"Yes, I dud! But it was before Mister Blather suffered a nervous breakdown!"

"Doctor, I promise we'll be very delicate."

"No way! No interrogations until morning!"

"But we can't wait until morning!" Salinger exclaimed.

"You'll have to."

"Can't you see it, Doc? It's an emergency! Time is of the essence!"

"You don't see anything! He was dropped from a forty-feet high bridge! It's almost two times higher than our hospital!"

"But he was barely injured!"

"Barely injured?! He's got a rib fracture, mind you, and the right side of his body is one big hematoma!"

"Doctor!"

"I can't help you."

"You can't? Or you don't want to?"

"Mind your tongue, young man!" the doctor tried to bring Salinger down, but only roused him more.

"Mister Branson, you'll just stand there and watch it? You are the head of the Presidential security! You have enough authority to summon National Guard here!"

"Deputy head of the Presidential security," Trevor corrected his subordinate politely. But this clarification wasn't significant enough to suppress Hippocrates adept's awe.

"Presidential security?" the therapist muttered. "You mean, our President? But… Uh… Why didn't you say so from the start!?"

Branson cast his eyes down to make his satisfied smile less obvious. "Well, you see, we didn't want to advertise our interest in this case, for even the tiniest leak can have the most catastrophic consequences. That's why, along with the entire country, will be very grateful to you if you don't tell many people about who we are and whom we really represent."

"Of course, of course!" the doctor bustled. "Certainly! Absolutely! Time is of the essence! Mister Blather is resting at the moment, though, and our rules allow to wake our patients up only under certain conditions, but I think you situation can be considered… How about a fire?"

"No objections on my part," Trevor said. He and Salinger turned around to leave the room but their path was blocked by nurse heavily breathing from running and anger. "Doctor Stone! It's unthinkable! They don't let me into Mister Blather's ward! Me!"

"And who are you, I'm sorry?" Blather inquired politely but warily.

"Me?" the medical worker gasped. "I am the nurse on duty, and I can't get into the patient's ward! And all because of you! You stationed those people there, didn't you?!"

Branson ignored her question and turned to Stone. "Does she really work here?"

"Yes, yes," the doctor conformed. "It's Connie Lennox, she's been working here for more than a year already."

"In that case…" Trevor shot a glance at the nurse's left hand, but she was faster than him. "Miss."

"In that case, Miss Lennox," the special agent repeated, "I am sorry for inconvenience—"

"Inconvenience?!" the nurse waved her hands making her shoulder-long chestnut hair wave. "If you consider the duty nurse's inability to get to the patient who's calling her inconvenience, I… I don't even know what it is!"

"Blather called you?" Branson asked.

"Yes, he did! And looks like he's doing it again!"

Indeed, an ear-splitting buzzing was coming from the corridor, originating from a signal device installed over the nurse's desk.

"Here!" The nurse pointed at the flashing red fragment of electronic map hanging nearby which indicated the reporter's ward.

"Any danger?" Howard asked just in case.

"No, all the readings are normal. See?"

"We see," Trevor answered for both himself and Salinger. "Come, I'll tell my men to let you through."

"It's about time!" the nurse commented and mercifully turned the buzzing off. Branson's patronage made the door guards much more complaisant and the nurse was able to pay the reporter a visit.

"How is he? What does he want?" Branson asked when Lennox came back.

"He's okay, asks for water. I'll bring it."

"Don't worry, I'll bring it myself. Just show me where you get it."

"But it's my job!"

"All of us need help from time to time, don't we? Then again, haven't you ever dreamt to yoke chairwarmers from federal agencies to the plow?"

Since the nurse didn't object, apparently such thoughts weren't unknown to her. Solemnly handing Trevor a tall glass, she returned to her post, and the special agent went to Stan's ward. "Howard, is there any coffee left?"

"Yes, half a cup."

"It'll do." Finishing the energizing drink, Branson cleared his throat, uttered 'Let's get dangerous!' and entered the ward.

"Your water, Mister Blather!" he announced putting the glass on the bedside table.

"Thank you, nurse," the sleepy reporter replied instinctively, but then corrected himself. "I meant, nurse man…" Carefully turning his head encased in immobilization collar, he reached for the glass and froze when he saw a black mackintosh instead of hospital uniform. "Hey! Who are you?!"

"Trevor Branson, deputy head of Presidential Protection Division," the special agent introduced himself, deliberately omitting his agency name. "How do you feel?"

"Worse and worse!" the reporter said angrily. "So you'd better leave before I called security!"

"There's no need for that, I assure you." Branson said. He picked up a chair in the corner and brought it to the bed, scaring the patient.

"Help! Killers!" Blather yelled covering his bandaged head with his hands.

"Calm down, Stanley," agent asked hanging his coat on the chair and sitting down. "Nobody's killing you. I just want to talk."

Wanting to hear nothing, Blather pressed the nurse call button and didn't let it go until he heard her voice in the corridor. But this time the Secret Service agents had different instructions and they stood before her like a wall breachable by tank only.

"Hey! What's going on there? Why nobody's coming?" the reporter grew agitated as he listened to the argument behind the door.

"Because I said so," Branson let a bit of cold steel into his voice. "So calm down and—"

"HELP!" Stan yelled on top of his lungs, but then his fractured rib reminded of itself and he had to lower his voice. "Nurse! Doc! Security! They're killing me! Murdering me!"

His screams made even Rescue Rangers hidden behind the grate shudder, but Trevor didn't even flinch. He was in his element. During his career as a field agent he had to interrogate far louder clients. But Nurse Lennox had no such experience and took everything at face value. "Hey! Stop it now! Either you let me in there, or I'll call the cops!"

"No fear, they are already here," Salinger smiled amiably. "Mister Blather will be alright, I assure you. It's a common practice."

"Common practice! I didn't hear anything like that even in our Psychiatry wing!"

"Don't worry, it would end soon. I mean, Special Agent Branson is a great specialist and he connects with people quickly."

"Yeah, sure," the nurse folded her arms on her chest. "I know your tricks! The bad cop and the good cop, or how do you call it!"

"Something like that," the young agent agreed.

"And who's who of you two?"

"That's a trade secret. But," Salinger winked meaningfully, "I will give you a hint — I'm not the bad one. Between you and me, I'm a really nice guy. By the way, my name's Howard. And yours, I heard, is Connie? It's shortened Condoleezza, right? Beautiful name, suits you perfectly—"

"Come up with something more original, Mister Howard!" Lennox sniffed and left. Salinger plucked his lip in confusion, cursing under his breath to have started this conversation in his colleagues' presence, but now he had only two variants: make another attempt or become a weakling in the eyes of his entire field office.

"I'll be right back," he remarked with feigned carelessness over his shoulder and went in the same direction.

The two agents by the door followed him with their knowing and sarcastic glances, then the one on the left from the door said: "Ten bucks she'll tell him to bugger off."

"To tell the truth, I think the same," his partner acknowledged. "But for a larger stake, say, fifty bucks, I'll agree to disagree with you."

"Fifty?" the instigator predatory asked smelling easy money. "Deal!"

"Deal!"

They shook their hands and peace and quiet reigned in the corridor again, which the people and animals in the ward could only dream of.

"You finished?" Branson asked when Stan ran out of air. "In that case you'd better refresh while you can, for the talk will be long."

Blather looked at the glass mistrustfully. "First drink from my glass yourself."

Trevor was surprised. "What for?"

"Drink," Stan repeated with a stress.

"Ah," Branson understood. "You think I want to poison you? But why, Mister Blather, we don't do that!"

"I know! You drown your enemies in the river!"

"Not at all, Mister Blather. That's precisely why we want to find those who did this to you."

"In that case you should go to Secret Service, not to me."

Trevor feigned surprise. "Secret Service agents tried to kill you? How do you know that?"

"Well, they said so," Blather answered but not as confident as before, which undoubtedly was a plus.

"Do you remember their names?"

"One was Smith, and the other Johns or maybe Johnson or— Johnson, right!"

"Smith and Johnson?" Branson had already read it in the report Blunt sent him, but he knew from experience that it's more effective to conduct interview from the very beginning. He had to carefully hide his knowledge, though, so that the reporter wouldn't think he was being fooled or, even worse, begin omitting the 'already widely known' details. "Not the rarest names. Can you describe them?"

"Describe? Well, they were so…" Blather bit his lip to help his memory. "So… I don't know, in suits and ties."

"And their faces?"

"Faces? Normal faces…"

"Strange," Branson observed with disappointment. "For some reason I thought you should have good memory for faces, you are the reporter, after all."

"Former…" Stan corrected him automatically and bit his tongue. "I mean, well, they promoted me from reporters to special reporters, they wrote it in credits."

Even Dale understood he was lying. That's why he was shocked when Trevor changed the topic. "Do you remember their IDs numbers? Maybe not entirely, but maybe serial or a couple of first digits?"

"What the IDs got to do with it?!" the chipmunk resented aloud. "Blather's lying, even blind Matt Murdock could see that!"

His critique wasn't justified, though, for the special agent understood everything perfectly and didn't press the issue worrying that Blather would close his shell again. That's why he put the delicate question off showing the reporter a way out which Blather gladly used, albeit with some confusion. "IDs? What IDs?"

"The ones they showed you."

"Ah, those IDs, I see now…" Stan began loudly but halfway through the realization came to him and he sulked and continued in a low and even slightly whiny voice. "I don't know. I didn't see them."

"Didn't see their IDs?"

"Uhm, well, I saw one, but at a glimpse, I couldn't read anything really."

"So you didn't see the IDs of Secret Service agents?" Branson brightened. "So they just told you they were Secret Service agents and you took that for granted?"

"Apparently so…" Stan sat back on his pillow limply. "So they… They deceived me?!"

"Probably. Tell me—"

"No-no-no, wait a second," Blather grew suspicious again. "And where's YOUR ID?"

Branson swore silently but he was the only one to blame here. There were plenty of options, from attempting to talk round the uncomfortable question to outright lying that the Presidential security members didn't carry IDs, but all of them threatened to destroy the barely established trust. On the other hand, sooner or later Blather would still have to find out where his new friend worked, so it was better to let it happen now, before a little omission became an enormous devastating deception.

"Here," he said handing the reporter the small black book. Blather opened it and turned it around several times determining where its upper side was. He looked at the photo first, and when he made sure that the man on it didn't differ much from the man sitting before him, he began reading. "Trevor Fitzgerald Branson," he read aloud stressing every syllable. "Special Agent, Division… Wait a second!" He brought the ID close to his eyes to see the letters on the badge better. "United States… UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE?!"

"Yes, Mister Blather, I—"

"GO AWAY!" the reporter bellowed forgetting his chest pain and threw the ID at Branson's face. "YOU'RE ONE OF THEM! ONE OF THE KILLERS! HELP!"

"Mister Blather—"

"SAVE ME!" Stan wasn't just pressing the call button but hitting it with his fist. "ANYBODY! THEY ARE KILLING ME! ROBBING ME! DEPRIVING ME OF SIGHT!"

Such a crass panic required the most radical measures up to physical assault and shooting into the air. But Trevor decided to another way which gave hope for normal relations with the reporter in the future required for productive cooperation.

"Mister Blather," Branson rose from the chair and stepped forward. "Please—"

"NO! DON'T COME CLOSER!" giving up on his attempts to call for help, Stan covered his head with the blanket. "Don't touch me! Go away! Spare me!"

"MISTER BLATHER!" Trevor was forced to shout. "LOOK AT ME!"

"I don't want to! I won't! See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil! ARGH!" Stan wailed and thrashed to keep the blanket pulled off him. "No! Don't!"

"Mister Blather!" grabbing Stan's hands, Trevor leaned over him, their noses almost colliding. "Look at me!"

Blather tried to break free, but the balance of power was clearly not in his favor, so he gave up and opened his eyes. "I'm looking…" he jabbered.

"Don't you recognize me?"

"Sh-should I?"

"You'd better. After all, the special reporters mustn't forget the heroes of their own shows so quickly."

Need to strain his memory made Blather to calm down slowly.

"What do you— Wait…" the reporter realized that this combination of black brows and moustache with gray temples was familiar to him, indeed. "You… You entered the stage when the President… When those rodents… And I thought…"

"See?" Branson let Blather go and picked up his ID from the floor. "I really work in Presidential Protection. Moreover, I am the Deputy Head of this division and the head of investigation of the attempt on your life since recently. Here, read this!"

Although the fax contents were even more shocking, Blather read it without any problems. At least he didn't start tearing it and throwing the pieces about and made just one remark. "Does the Secret Service investigate such cases?"

"We investigate everything concerning the President. And since your wanna-be killers pretended to be Secret Service agents, it's a matter of honor for us now."

"And if they didn't 'pretend' to be your agents, then what?" Blather inquired.

"All the more reasons for us to find the traitors," Branson answered with conviction. "Will you help us?"

"I'll try," Stan said warily adjusting his slipped pillow. "But, as I said, I don't remember their faces at all…"

"It's okay, our artists will help you. Tell me how you were kidnapped."

"Well, they came up, introduced themselves…"

"Where were you at the time?"

"In the police station, talked to the detective about the explosion in my house."

"Yes, I heard about it. What was the name of the detective?"

"Detective? Er… Morrison! Lieutenant Jim Morrison, head of the homicide department!"

Branson nodded. It matched the report he had read. "Alright. What happened next?"

"Next? Jim got a call that the FBI people came for the case and he left. Almost immediately those guys came and said the case was given to them, that is, to Secret Service, and I must go to Newark with them. And I went."

"Do you remember the car's model or license?"

"I think it was Ford, white. I didn't see the plate."

"I see. Go on, please."

"What's there to tell? They drove me into some Godforsaken hole, jumped me, knocked me out… And that's it. I woke up in the ambulance."

"What did they use to knock you out? A club? A shocker?"

"Chloroform."

"Chloroform? Interesting… How did you get onto the river bank?"

"No idea. I'm telling you, I woke up in the ambulance!"

"Yes-yes, sure, don't get angry," Trevor raised his hand pacifyingly. "I just want to uncover all the details. Thing is, you were found in Lincoln Park, some sixty feet from the river bank, with your hands and legs tied, so I don't understand—"

Stan got irritated. "You suggest that I set it all up?! You're all the same! Jim suspected me of burning my own house down, and now you, Agent Branson, do the same! Is it your way to increase crime solving rates, huh?"

"Stop it, Stan, nobody questions they wanted to drown you. The camera on the Pulaski Skybridge caught them taking you out of their trunk and dropping you down. You flew one hundred and thirty five feet, mind you."

"One hundred and thirty five feet? Is it a lot?"

"Usually people die when they fall from such a height. But if doctors are right, you have only one fractured rib. You don't even have a concussion."

"Really?" the reporter shook his head to make sure. "Well, I finally got a bit lucky."

"It's not luck," Trevor objected. "You were definitely born with a silver spoon in your mouth."

"And it's obviously very suspicious, right?" Blather sulked again.

"Rather, it's very mysterious. Nobody knows how you ended up on the bank. Don't you want to find out what happened to you?"

"Of course I do!" Stan flared. "Of course it interests me! But, I repeat, I was unconscious and woke up in the ambulance!"

"Yes, I got that already. Do you have a dog?"

"No, why?"

"Did you have one as a child?"

"No, never. I don't like dogs. Why do you ask?"

"How about your parents or other relatives?" Trevor went on as if not hearing Stan's questions.

"I think my cousin has a poodle… Explain what dogs have to do with it, darn it!"

"Because the security officers from the County Prosecutors Office who found you saw a huge black dog near you."

Chill ran along the reporter's spine. "A huge black dog?" he asked. "Oh… my… GOD!"

"Mister Blather, what's wrong with you?" the special agent grew alarmed as Stan threw his blanket off and twitched about groping his face and body.

"What's wrong with me?! You don't get it?!" Blather shrieked. "What if that beast bit me?!"

"I wish Fishburn had really bitten him…" Dale joked grimly. This reporter was freaking him out. Trevor wasn't amused, too. "Mister Blather, please, stop it! The doctors examined you and found no biting marks!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course! Doctor Stone himself told me!" Branson lied. "Let's stick to business."

"Let's!" Stan agreed eagerly. "So what about the dog?"

"I don't know. It vanished."

"Vanished? Just vanished?"

"Yes, vanished into thin air. That's why I asked you whether you ever had a dog. It's just that, well, there are documented occurrences when dogs helped their masters even after their deaths."

Even Dale who knew exactly what happened shuddered, and Blather's face became indistinguishable from the pillowcase by its color.

"You mean I was saved by… a GHOST dog?"

"Taking everything into account, I wouldn't easily dismiss this version," Trevor said slowly, barely keeping his deadpan. He was a rational man and didn't believe in ghosts, but he wasn't above using human fear of the unknown for lucrative purposes. Like now, for instance, when a hint of intervention of the forces from the other side was enough to throw Blather off his stride and create an opportunity to ask the most important question. "Who gave you the recording of the Capitol security camera?"

"I don't know him, he—" Blather fell silent and squinted knowingly. "So that's what this is all about! That's what you really need! Not my killers, but my sources! You won't get them, remember that! Is that clear?!"

"Mister Blather, don't you think that your source may be connected with the killers?"

"Whom?" Stan laughed. "Killers? Don't make me laugh!"

"The killers can be more successful next time," the special agent stated matter-of-factly. But his words only angered the reporter.

"Really? You think I'm a fool? You think you can frighten me a little, then lie some, and I will betray the whole patriotic underground? No, Mister Branson, it won't happen!"

_Patriotic underground — that's something new!_ Branson took a mental note but pretended not to notice the phrase. He'll use it later. He'll mention it as if in passing, provoking the reporter to say unprepared and unplanned words. Sometimes it was enough to hear everything he needed and even more than that. But first he needed to lull his prey's vigilance.

"Mister Blather, let's call each other by our first names," he offered. "My name's Trevor, for instance."

"No, agent Branson!" Stan bristled up. "We'd better not! Let's keep it that way."

"But why?" Trevor asked sadly.

"I'm afraid of you," the reporter admitted. "Not you personally, I don't like you guys in general."

"But you addressed Lieutenant Morrison by his name."

"Me? Well, yes… How do you know?"

"You called him Jim a couple of times."

"Really?" Blather got confused. "I didn't notice…"

"Why did you like Mister Morrison so much?"

"He's my neighbor!" Stan answered proudly.

"Neighbor? Oh, you all live in Maplewood. Small town, everybody's like a family… By the way, Stan, where's your family?"

"In a safe place!" there was a challenge in Blather's voice.

"I hope they aren't on your or your wife's parents' farm…" Branson said.

A beeping of cardiograph going off-scale interrupted him. The reporter, his face crimson with surged blood, sat straight and stared at the agent with his eyes full of fear and hatred. "How do you know?!" he hissed. "You… Of course! You are in league with them! With them!"

"With whom?" Branson asked as he mentally went through the options which were luckily few. "With Morrison?"

"STOP IT, MISTER BRANSON!" Blather got so agitated it seemed he would have a stroke any second. "Enough of this sham and lie! You know everything! You knew it from the very beginning! You… Oh god, so that's what it was! A trap! A snare! A bait! Oh my… Please, don't hurt them! Not them! I… I'll do everything! Everything you want! Answer all your questions! Tell everything! I'll tell everything!"

The offer was very enticing, and Branson had to fight the temptation to accept it. Obviously by pretending to be a cruel terrorist you can find out many useful things absolutely unavailable to good samaritans. But you must do it very carefully and only to those who you have no plans of meeting in the future, not to mention befriending. And you definitely shouldn't do it with those who know your real name and position and can make them public. Branson had enough troubles with suspicions of his involvement with MacMillan's death and he didn't want to give Cunningham, Davenport and others even the tiniest confirmation of their conjectures. That's why he waited for Blather to stop sniveling and said confidently: "Mister Blather, as I said, I wasn't involved in attempt on your life. On the contrary, I'm investigating it by the personal order of the President of the United States. It's up to you whether to believe me or not, but it's true, and have no idea what you're talking about now. But if you explain me everything, I promise to do all I can to help you. Please, Mister Blather, tell me what happened between you and Morrison."

Blather wept and patted his eyes dry with his palm. "You aren't with them? Be honest."

"I give you my word," Branson answered although appealing to honesty in this context seemed funny and very naive. But he answered sincerely, and Stan believed him. Either he felt the agent was telling the truth, or maybe he was just tired of believing no one…

"Alright, Mister Branson, I'll tell you, I'll tell you everything. But promise, no, swear you'll save them! Save my family! Save my family, Mister Branson!"

"From whom?"

"From Morrison!"

"Morrison? Lieutenant Jim Morrison? Of Maplewood police?"

"Yes, from him!" Stan nodded. "He's their mastermind!"

"Who are 'they'?"

"These bandits! Terrorists! Black Table!"

"Go on," Trevor encouraged him to continue. As for him, lieutenants of a small town police department didn't suite the role of the mastermind of a powerful secret organization. Then again, it's a nice cover…

"When I talked to him today, he… You see, he began to ask me about my family, where are they, where did they go. I said I hid them while working on the program. Then he asked me what car did they take. I said they took our car, and he said. like, it was wrong, for they could be easily found because of it. And he offered me to call my wife and tell her to get rid of the car."

"A very reasonable advice, by the way."

"Really?" Stan wondered. "You think so."

"Yes. You think otherwise?"

"I don't. But that's not the case. I was about to call them right away, took my cell phone out, and he, Morrison, says: 'Take mine in case yours is under surveillance.' And gives me his phone."

"And you?"

"And I took the phone. I called my wife and told her everything… Using his phone, you see? His phone!"

"In other words, he has your wife's number now."

"Yes! That is, no! I deleted it afterwards."

"That's very clever of you. And how did Morrison react?"

"Morrison? Normally. He told me to do it."

"Really? Why do you suspect him then?"

"What? Don't you understand?! He's the cop! He can call the phone company and ask them what number the last call from his phone was to! And then determine where the phone with this number is located! It's… Oh God, what if he did it already?!"

Branson rose his arms urging the reporter to settle down. "Mister Blather, I understand your feelings, but I think you're overdramatizing it."

"Overdramatizing?! You promised to help me! So help me!"

"I'm helping you. Once again, I understand your emotions, but I consider them uncalled for— No-no, let me finish. So, basically, your argument is logical, but there's one big 'but'. If Lieutenant Morrison really were a member or even the head of the Black Table, he wouldn't need to defraud your wife's number in such a convoluted way. Being a police officer, he could just call your operator and they would tell him your wife's number and a town where she called the last time from."

"Really?" Blather muttered. "I haven't thought of that…"

"Truth be told, you haven't thought of many things. Turns out, you sent your family into hiding, but didn't think about changing the car, getting a new phone number, or choosing a better place than the house of your parents-in-law. They went there, am I right?"

"You are," Stan whispered, defeated utterly. "Oh my, I am an idiot…"

"Drop it, you're not an idiot at all," Trevor assured him. "Quite the opposite, you acted very clever and forward-looking. Yes, you overlooked many things, but you still saved your family from the explosion. It's a great success!"

"You think so?"

"I don't think so, it's a fact." Now that Blather calmed down, special agent allowed himself to smile, hoping it looked benevolent and encouraging enough. "But we need to take your family to a secured location as fast as possible. Tell me their address, and all will be down before dawn."

"Address?" Stan tensed again. "What for?"

"To spare my people extra efforts. Basically, we know enough already to find them, but it would be better if you tell it yourself."

"You know," the reporter stuttered. "Somehow I don't want to…"

"Look at him!" Dale couldn't contain his emotions again. "I would have shot him long ago! How can Branson be so patient with him?"

Trevor didn't know that either, but he knew that all would be lost if he snapped. So he sighed sadly, reminded himself one more time that murder attempts hit your psychique harder than a brick and went on as if nothing happened. "Mister Blather, you're contradicting yourself. First you ask me to help you and save your family, now you don't want that. No, I understand, somebody wanted to kill you, and you see enemies everywhere now, and see yourself as David challenging Goliath—"

Even if Blather hadn't shaken with his whole body, the beeping of the cardiograph playing lie detector would have given him out. Branson was baffled by the reaction, but then he realized he had said the biblical character's name in English manner and probably mentioned a man whom Blather had unpleasant associations with. Basically it could be anybody, from a school bully to his boss who ordered to fire him. But Branson grabbed a tiny, barely visible straw, for he had no other options left to him. "David is your source, right? From the patriotic underground?"

He calculated everything right. By this time Stan had forgotten he had said this phrase and he looked at Branson as if he was a prophet, with his jaw dropped as far down as his belly button. "You… How you… BUT YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ALREADY!"

"Unfortunately, I don't," Trevor swept his hands trying to make his natural gesture look ostentatious. "And I hope to know the rest from you. So…"

"No!" Blather waved his outstretched hands. "No, no, and no! You won't get him! Why do you need him? Why do you need David? You have nothing to say? But I know it already! To silence him! To hide the truth from the people! If it hadn't been for him, nobody would have known about the MAP! Nobody would have known anything! He did tread on your pet corn, didn't he? You deserved that! You are all together against the freedom! Against the truth! Against the people! Against— Hey, wait? Where are you going?"

"First to the corridor, then who knows!" Branson said as he headed to the door. "I'm fed up with your insults! God knows I wanted to help you. but since you don't want to cooperate, I'm unable to do anything! I'll give you to my deputy and forget about it! Or better, we'll give the investigation to the FBI, it's their specialty, after all, plus I believe you know them already! Farewell!"

That was really risky. He didn't know Stan well enough to predict how he'd behave, although the fact that he became worried and not rejoiced by agent's leaving allowed for some optimism. Actually, that was the sole reason why Trevor decided to go with a stern lecture and didn't say he was just going to bathroom. In any case, everything was hanging by a thread, and agent was glad there was no mirror on the door which could reflect his tightened lips and sweat-covered forehead.

"No! No, wait!" the reporter tried to get up but was so frightened he got entangled in his blanket and wires from medical sensors. "I'm sorry! Come back, please!"

"Tell me at least one reason for it," Branson demanded without looking back.

"Well…" Stan mumbled perplexedly. "I said I'm sorry…"

Snorting loudly, Branson put his hand on the door knob hoping he wasn't overdoing it.

"NO!" Blather shouted. "No, please! Don't go! Please! I beg you! Don't leave me! I swear, I'll tell you everything! Just don't leave! Don't leave me! Please, don't…"

Wiping spiteful grin from his face, Trevor turned around and saw a completely different man — scared, crushed and totally defenseless. He looked so pathetic that for a second Branson felt ashamed for using all these tricks and combinations from his arsenal of a seasoned fighter against counterfeiters and haters of presidents. But then he remembered what consequences Blather's show had, remembered grey Marge and broken Liza and once again became the one he should be: a professional following the lead.

Coming back to the bed, he swung the chair around, bestraddled it and ordered. "Tell me about David."

"He's not David." The reporter corrected him with a thankful sob.

"And who's he."

"I have no idea."

"Mister Blather, it's your last chance…"

"But I really don't know who he is!" Stan twisted his hands in desperation. "I'm just sure his name wasn't David! Anything but David! That is, I know him as David but it's not his real name…"

He told everything, from the stranger getting into his car to his disappearance in the depths of Central Park. Every other sentence he said quicker than the previous one, trying to give as much information per time unit as possible in order not to let Branson become disappointed with him and leave. Trevor didn't interrupt him. Moreover, he was afraid to breathe louder than usual. Rescue Rangers become glued to the grate, too, carefully consuming every sound Blather was making. Only once, when Stan took a break to drink some water, Foxglove whispered quietly: "Looks like we are in the best place at the best time! And all thanks to you, cutie!"

"You are my example," the chipmunk muttered without looking away from the scene below. Realizing he was hinting at their first meeting, the bat wanted to kiss him but then Blather put his glass down with a thud and she had to abandon this plan and start listening again.

"...And then he got out and disappeared. That's it," Stan finished his hasty tale.

"Did he get in touch with you again?"

"No, never."

"Not even after the program?"

"I told you, never!"

"Okay. Are you sure he had a Midwestern accent?"

"Absolutely! My mother-in-law is from Illinois."

"That explains it," Trevor smiled. "Don't you remember the number of that Italian's car whom 'David' threatened to kill? Or the Italian himself?"

"No, I couldn't see the number. he stood very close to me. And he himself… Well, he was tan, curly hair, waved his hands about…"

"In short, a typical Italian."

"I'm telling the truth!" Blather exclaimed.

"I believe you," Trevor nodded calmly. "I believe you're telling the truth, but the more witnesses we will question, the higher the chances to find where that 'David' came from and where he left. You remember anyone standing beside you on the intersection?"

"No, I don't. Three weeks passed, after all, so much happened… And he threatened me with his gun!"

"Agreed, the situation didn't allow for careful observations, but in my experience the witnesses sometimes remembered such tiny details that couldn't seemingly be noted. But they noted them and remembered them, and then they themselves are surprised by the things their memory holds while they were sure they saw nothing." Branson smiled remembering a couple of really amusing episodes, but then became serious again. "Did you see anyone else in Central Park?"

"No, nobody!" Stan answered quickly and instinctively averted his eyes. Basically, Trevor had full moral rights to get up and leave slamming the door behind him. But since excessive use of potent substances us dangerous not only in medicine but in fieldwork, too, he limited himself to a frown and threatening voice. "Mister Blather, you swore something…"

"Yes, Mister Branson, I know, I remember. I'm not lying and not hiding anything, just… I'm so ashamed… And it has nothing to do with the case!"

"Then there are no reasons to hold it back, right?"

Blather couldn't come up with a reasonable objection to it, so he sighed heavily. "Alright, agent, I'm no match for you in argument. It was cops."

"Cops," Branson repeated when the pause became too long.

"Yes, cops. 'David', he ordered me to drive along the Park Road, and it was night, the Park is off limits for vehicles at that time, and so they came up."

"Patrol officers?"

"Yes, Auxiliary."

"How many of them?"

"Two."

"Their names?"

"I don't know."

"Why? They must have introduced themselves!"

"Sure they must have if you say so," Stan made a helpless gesture. "But they didn't. I just know they were Jay and Bob. They addressed one another so."

"And what happened next?"

"As always. They said the parking was prohibited. Asked me what I was doing there."

"And you?"

"And I told them nothing! I said I came here to breathe some air… I'll be punished, yes?"

"If you behave, we'll think something up," Trevor winked at the reporter surreptitiously. "The policemen didn't see through your lies, I presume?"

"No. Although when they began inquiring whether I was alright, I felt like fish out of water and I almost told them everything."

"I understand you, our work scares people sometimes. And how it ended?"

"They wanted to fine me, but they ran out of tickets and let me go."

"Hey, that guy was really born with a silver fork in his nose! Even police don't punish him! I wish I lived like that!" Dale became green with envy.

Trevor had a different opinion on the matter but he decided against scaring Blather beforehand and answered in the same vein. "You are really lucky guy! Even I with my ID would have much bigger problems!"

"Come on," Blather waved him off, "you with your ID would have issued them a ticket yourself!"

"If only," Branson rolled his eyes. "You can't imagine how difficult it is sometimes! We are competitors, after all, so… But enough of that. You did great! If I were you, I'd have been scared into telling them everything."

"You are a bad reporter, then!" Stan couldn't miss an opportunity to taunt the agent not knowing he was lured into saying something like that.

"Yes, I'm far behind you!" Trevor smiled even wider and kinder. "You are a true master of your craft, I can see that by your shows. Why did they fire you then?"

"Because they are all-round jerks, skunks and—" the third epithet stuck in Stan's throat. "No, wait, why do you think so?"

But it was too late, the words were said already, and Blather could do nothing but wriggle on the swallowed bait while the special agent methodically reeled the line in. "What did they fire you for?"

"Nobody fired me!"

"Because of the show?"

"Yes… That is, no, no! I—"

"When did they fire you?"

"No, wait—"

"WHEN DID THEY FIRE YOU?!" Trevor shouted so loudly that the Rescue Rangers jerked away from the grate and Stan almost climbed on the headboard with his legs.

"Today…" he mumbled. "Today…"

"Okay, here's what happened," Branson knew life well enough to deduce the complete picture. "Yesterday in the evening they called you back from Washington. You told your young and inexperienced colleague from the WBC local branch to go on reporting—"

"How do you know that?!"

"I watch TV. So you were relieved from the reporting duty and returned to New York to your home studio. There you were met by your immediate superior, Mister… Remind me, please."

"Jefferson," Blather said obediently. "Tobias Jefferson."

"Mister Jefferson led you to his office—"

"He was there already."

"So you came to Mister Jefferson's office. He praised you, called you his greatest employee of all time and was sad to announce that you no longer worked with him and wished you luck on your next job. You demanded explanations and he said that…"

"CIA demanded it."

These words were worth more than all the previous combined. Repeated under oath, they will shock the country, and nothing will ever be like before. Branson realized it all at once, but while he was thinking on what to say next, Stan realized it, too.

"Please, Mister Branson, don't tell anyone about it! Let it stay between us! If they know I told you everything, they… they will clobber us! Destroy us! Destroy us all! Me, Jefferson, the whole WBC! Everyone involved! Every single one!"

Even Branson with his firsthand knowledge of CIA methods considered such a mass murder of American citizens as something excessive so he decided to ask: "They threatened you with physical violence?"

"I wish they did!" Stan shuddered. "Worse! They threatened to bury us in image-building sense, you understand?"

"Not quite," Trevor acknowledged.

"What's there not to understand?! They'll ruin our reputation, make us derelicts, pariahs, scapegoats!"

"No, I understand that," Branson stopped the flow of synonyms. "Didn't they tell you how they were going to do it?"

"Like heck they didn't! They did! You see, they have a recording…"

By the time Stan finished his tale Branson became totally confused. A phone call with a polite(!) request(!) to postpone(!) the show matched the Agency's modus operandi even less than total annihilation of Channel Six employees. Either they reviewed their policy really radically, or—

"Do you have this recording?"

"Mister Jefferson should have it."

"Do you know his address?"

"Not exact, but it's somewhere in Charlottesville, in Virginia. Their family estate's there."

"Oh, he's of those Jeffersons?" Branson realized.

"Yes, he is."

"It's a small world, no doubt… So what, he commuted from Virginia to New York and back every day?"

"No, of course not, he's got a house in suburbs. He just said he'd go there… Oh, I forgot, he resigned, too!"

"He, too? It was one of the conditions?"

"No, he did on his own. He felt himself guilty of that explosion, you see? While I was in Washington, some CIA guys visited him and brought a photo of a young lad perished in that explosion, and he reminded him of his grandson. Mister Tobias was emotional over it, he even got drunk. He almost never drank, and now…"

_But he was asked politely… _Trevor almost blurted out but refrained. It was too early to spoil relations with Blather, and it was too early to draw some standing conclusions.

"Anything else, Mister Branson? Ask, I'll tell everything!"

"No, Mister Blather, that's it for now. Thank you very much for the information."

"You're welcome. Say, will my story appear on the record somehow? I would like to not repeat it all over again…"

"That won't be needed," Trevor leaned forward and took a black object out of his mackintosh pocket. Blather broke out in a cold sweat thinking it was a gun, but it was only a phone. Branson pressed several buttons and hemmed with satisfaction.

"You have a voice recorder there!" the reporter realized.

"Exactly. So don't worry, everything's on the record already."

"Thanks, I feel better now," Blather sat back on his pillow, visibly relieved. "So will you help my family?"

"Sure thing. But we'll finish with you first."

"Alright," the reporter rose on his elbows. "What should I do?"

"First, how about we start calling each other by names?"

"Of course, Mister Bra— Trevor."

"Way to go, Stanley!"

"Call me Stan. Everybody calls me that way. And the second?"

"And second," Branson rose from the chair, "you'll have to die."

Upon hearing these words Foxglove unfolded her wings and prepared to jump down on his neck, but Dale was fast enough to grab his girlfriend by a shoulder strap of her jumpsuit. "Stop! It's a joke!"

"Wake up, cutie!" the bat struggled. "No time for games! He wants to kill him!"

"No!" the chipmunk reassured her. "Remember 'Eraser'! It's all fake! Look!"

Indeed, although enough time had passed since the ritual phrase was said to eliminate a whole company of reporters, Blather was still alive and frightened.

"What-t d-do you mean, t-to d-die?"

"Don't worry, not literally," putting his mackintosh up, Branson went to the door and shouted into the corridor. "Salinger's here? Call him! And Doctor Stone, too, while you're at it!"

* 26 *

The first journalists came to the Jersey City Medical Center just half an hour after Blather was delivered here. As it always happens, their first broadcasts had a bombshell effect, but with every other live session the material was losing its applicability and they had to think hard how to say the same but in different words and where to get new facts. Their constant attempts to get inside the hospital finally made the security to join forces with police and drive them away almost to the fence, but they still managed to feed their audience with new details fished out from everywhere they could and couldn't, including depths of their own vivid imagination. As soon as the rumor came that Blather was thrown into Hackensack River from Pulaski Skybridge, everybody began rummaging through the past in search of similar cases and discuss Stan's chances to survive with such ego as if every one of them had past experience of at least a single jump headfirst into Niagara Falls. Too bad that Ockham's razor is no longer included into free journalism's arsenal.

Still, it would be unjust to blame the journalists alone for everything. Everybody needs to earn money somehow for his and his family's living, and sensational cases are usually surrounded by such a thick wall of silence that one must rely on his observance, astuteness, and ability to be in the right place at the right time. In the beginning the right place was the hospital's western entrance used by joint FBI-NCS task group to enter and then to leave the building. Ignoring the outstretched hands with microphones and voice recorders, they sat in their cars and left, but they stayed on cameras long enough for close-ups of their moody faces to appear on the TV screens worldwide. And when even the most patient of the viewers became sick with them, the next portion arrived in the face of an elderly doctor who came out onto the eastern porch and announced loudly: "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make an announcement concerning Mister Blather…"

In just a second a tight crowd gathered around him.

"What is your name?"

"What is Stan Blather's condition?"

"What's the diagnosis?"

"I will speak only once and for all at once," the doctor kept answering. The reporters calmed down, but then the 'westerners' came running with the same questions. By the time the doctor and their 'eastern' colleagues convinced them to stop talking the group guarding the northern entrance came forced to run around the building since nobody let them inside.

When everybody settled down for the third time, the doctor cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and spoke in a faltering voice. "My name is Doctor Thaddeus Stone, I am Mister Blather's attending physician. That is, I was. I have bad news."

The many-voiced sorrowful sigh echoed through the yard.

"As you probably know already, Mister Blather was thrown into the river from the bridge. On the way here he regained his senses which in conjunction with qualified first aid administered on arrival and absence of any serious traumas allowed to hope for a positive outcome. Unfortunately, as we already know, it was a temporary remission only. Approximately two hours after Mister Blather was transferred to the ward, his state worsened abruptly and he lost consciousness. Urgent tomography showed rapidly developing epidural hematoma. An urgent neurosurgical intervention was conducted, but the brain damage was already too severe, and approximately twenty minutes ago Stanley Roderick Blather died without regaining consciousness. On behalf of all the workers of Jersey City Medical Center I express sincere condolences to Mister Blather's family, relatives, co-workers and all his colleagues. I assure you that we did everything possible to save him, but his traumas turned out to be fatal. That's all."

The last phrase was like a high-octane gas can emptied into the fire.

"Is this a final result?"

"Was the autopsy made already?"

"What the autopsy showed?"

"Can we see the body?"

"The autopsy will be conducted in Washington, at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Right now Mister Blather's body is being prepared for transportation. I have no more to tell you. Once again, my condolences. And now you should excuse me, my other patients are waiting."

He supplanted his words by turning around and heading towards the entrance. The crowd burst with questions and rushed after him but hit the police cordon appearing as if from nowhere. Ignoring the shouts and scrum behind him, Stone crossed the hall quickly and silently and used the elevator to get to the fourth floor where Branson was already waiting for him.

"Great job, doc!" Trevor said nodding at the TV hanging on the wall in the hall where one of the reporters was retelling the story for those who had just woke up. "I almost believed it myself!"

"Stop it, Agent Branson!" Stone responded gloomily. "It took me one glance on Blather's cardiogram to know you're a danger for the society! And I'm helping you in your criminal schemes only of respect to President Logan whom I and my family voted for and will vote for in the future! Understood?"

"Perfectly," Trevor nodded. "Actually, nothing else is required from you. Aside from the paragraphs of the pledge of secrecy, of course."

"I remember!" the doctor winced and left without saying goodbye. Branson didn't stop him. He had more important things to do than argue with the people unable to comprehend rational arguments and capable of simultaneously vigorously supporting the acting President and call the operation he personally sanctioned criminal. That's why he went into the opposite direction, to the Blather's ward guarded by not two but four special agents now.

"Is he still there?" Trevor asked their chief.

"Yes. He said he needed like ten more minutes."

"Ten minutes easily turn into twenty… Where's Salinger?"

"Courting Condoleezza, probably!" the agent who betted fifty dollars against his colleague laughed.

"Constance!" Howard's voice came from behind name. "Her name's Constance!"

"I see you wasted no time," Trevor smiled making the young agent blush. "Helicopter ready?"

"Yes, waiting for signal."

"Good. You took the phone number?"

"What phone number?"

"Constance's."

"Oh…" Salinger became embarrassed even further. "Not yet, sir. Didn't have time. But I presume I'll spend the night here, so—"

"No, Howard, you'll go to New York with me. The chief will be…" he turned to the security detail head again. "Sorry, I forgot your name…"

"Thompson. Sam Thompson."

"Agent Thompson, you know what to do?"

"Yes, sir! Two men at the security station, four more in the personnel department. CVs, database input — everything's by the book!"

"Good, but don't shout so loud. Howard, go get the phone, I'll wait for you!" Trevor winked at him and entered the ward. "Mister Blather, are you ready?"

"Yes-yes, I'm almost done!" the reporter responded. He was lying on the bed clutching a pencil in one hand and his cell phone in another. After bathing in Hackensack his phone showed no signs of life, but full disassemble, cleaning and drying under a hand dryer made it work. It obvious the phone won't last long but it was about to fly to Washington along with the reporter's 'body' and all his belongings, so while Branson was organizing a secret transportation of his men into the hospital and covering up the tracks of him being here, the reporter hastily evacuated the phonebook's contents into simple but reliable notebook. This action was utterly useless for Stan would have no access to the phone in the next weeks if not months. Trevor knew that but didn't obstruct the reporter. If it made his ward feel better, it made him feel better, too.

"Did you call your wife?"

"What? Oh, yes! Sure!"

…Jessica Blather had already went to sleep when her mother received a call from her sister in Los-Angeles with the news of attack on Stan, and nobody could sleep afterwards. Lack of information and monotonous 'The number you're trying to reach is currently unavailable' message didn't help either. When Stan called her, his wife was already packing up to go to Jersey City. At first Jessica didn't recognize who's calling, then she couldn't understand why he was calling from someone else's number, then she demanded to name just one reason why she shouldn't come to him, and this time she was even more persistent than before. But Stan knew how to talk to his wife, plus falling from the bridge really hardened his character, and there was also a desire to recover some authority he felt he lost after speaking to Branson. In short, he convinced her to stay there. But he knew he would remember this conversation for a very long time…

"Did you warn her my men will pick her and children up?"

"I did."

"Told everything I asked you to?"

"I did."

"Repeat what you told her."

Tired with all these quizzes, Blather rolled his eyes but didn't protest. "She should tell nothing to anybody, even her parents and children, and say only that they are going to Washington. Correct?"

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing. She promised not to go to sleep." The most difficult part in talking to Jessica was to survive the first forty five minutes, after which her arguing fervor rapidly diminished and you could talk business. "She said she'll call when your people arrive… Are you sure these squad leaders, what were their names…"

"Dahlstrom and Henderson," Trevor prompted.

"Yeah, right… So, can they be trusted? What if they are with the Black Table? What… what if they tried to kill me?!"

"No," Trevor shook his head resolutely. "It wasn't them."

"How do you know?!"

"First, they have alibi. They were stationed in the White House all day. Second, I know them for a very long time. You know them, too, by the way. They both were on stage that day. President Logan himself trusts them with his life, and that's no small feat!"

"He trusted that bald man, too," Blather said without turning his head. "Just like you, Trevor!"

"Just like me," the agent agreed. "Nothing to be proud of there, that's for sure… How much time do you need?"

"I finished," the reporter put his notebook into the pocket of his hospital gown and handed Branson his phone.

"Alright, in that case… Hey, where're you going?!"

"I'll walk a little," Blather answered sitting up clumsily. Lowering his legs on the floor, he tried to get up but did it slightly faster than he should and sat down again wincing with pain and touching the right side of his chest encased into rigid immobilizing girdle. "Darn, it hurts…"

"Lie down, Stan! The doctors forbade you to move!"

"They forbade you many things, too, didn't they?" the reporter observed mockingly. "Don't teach me how to live, better help me a little."

Trevor had mixed feelings about it, but then he decided that a little encouragement for this small revolt against cruel reality would do no harm and offered Stan his hand. Getting up, Blather made several careful steps, fighting his natural and thus almost irresistible urge to stretch himself. But then the itching faded away, his pace grew confident and the reporter carefully straightened the set shoulder. There was no pain.

"So, how does it feel?" Branson inquired.

"It's okay, thanks… Tell me, Trevor, are you sure your plan will work? No insult intended, but all this really feels like 'Men in Black'..."

"Heard that?!" Dale got a swelled head. "I told you he looks like Will Smith! And you didn't believe me!"

"I believe you now, dear!" Foxglove cooed making the rodent feel sorry for starting the conversation.

Branson, on the other hand, saw it as a reference for his work methods, and not for his appearance, and smiled sadly. "Yeah, a couple of neuralizers would be very handy now. Unfortunately, we have to make do with pledges of secrecy and belief in people…"

"And that's it?!" the reporter was horrified.

"Of course not. My men are working with security footage and getting jobs of security personnel here."

"Why?"

"In case somebody's very insistent attempts to look at your medical history."

"Oh…" Stan came up to the window and reached for the shutters cord, but Trevor stopped him. "Stop! Don't do that!"

"Don't do what? I just wanted to open—"

"Don't open! If anyone sees you…"

The reporter grew pale. "You think there can be, like, a sniper, right?"

"No, but one sharp-eyed cameraman with good optics would be more than enough. You know that better than me."

Indeed, Blather knew very well what his colleagues armed with professional equipment were capable of, so he made do with a slit between the wall and the shutters. He could see only a small region of a parking lot, but that was enough to make him feel untold terror. "Trevor! Trevor!"

"What's up, Stan?" the agent asked. wondering why his ward was shouting in whisper.

"Come here! Quickly! It's them! Them!"

"Who? Where?" Branson came to the window, too, and the reporter quickly hid behind his back. "There! There!" he kept saying, pointing at the parking lot below.

"What's there?"

"See that black car? Under the second lamppost on the left? It's them! The killers! They had the white car before, and now they have the black one! See? They painted it! They're here! Call security, we must cordon the building off!"

The proposition was more than reasonable, but instead of running out and issuing necessary orders Branson laughed loudly. "Well, Stan, you have really good eyes, but it's a wrong car."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Your abductors rode Ford Crown Victoria, and this is Mercury Marauder. They are very similar visually, for they are made on the same chassis. But Marauders have leather interior, sporting suspension, and larger wheels. And this particular car is equipped with hopped-up engine, electronic-controlled gearbox and on-demand four-wheel drive."

"Wow!" Blather was so amazed his knees started shaking. "What a perception! You told so much about the car as if you drove it yourself!"

Branson smiled. "But I did. It's my car. Official. Only Presidential Protection Division has those. Other divisions of Secret Service drive white Fords Crown Victoria, or rather their police variants."

"Like the one…"

"Probably. The differences from the standard variant are mostly interior, so they look almost identical. But the Black Table has already demonstrated they are a powerful and rich organization, so it was our car most probably."

Blather lost his nerves completely.

"It's that bad?"

"Much worse, I think. But better than it could be. You're alive, after all, which means they are powerful, but not omnipotent… Alright, Stan, we shouldn't fall behind our schedule."

"Wait!" Blather grabbed his sleeve. "And this Center, in Washington… What if there's a mole there? What if they'll uncover it? It will be a catastrophe!"

"There's a certain risk, yes," Trevor admitted. "But our cover is maintained by the First Lady herself, and it means something, doesn't it?"

"Well…" Stan waved his hands. "It sounds comforting."

"It does! Are you sure you forgot nothing?"

"Looks that way…"

"Good, for helicopter's already waiting for you."

Blather stopped as if hitting a wall. "You? That is, me? And you? Aren't you going with me?"

"No, Stan, unfortunately I'm going to New York to look for 'David'. There must be some clues, they always are. Good luck and see you!"

"See you, too, Trevor! Thanks for everything! And thanks for my family!"

"It's too early for that. You'll thank me when Dahlstrom calls."

"When will I see them?"

"When it's all over. Trust me, that's safer, especially for them."

"I know. Well then—" Blather began but was cut short by knocking at the door. A second later Thompson entered the room along with two agents dressed as paramedics and carrying a stretcher. "Agent Branson, sir! Helicopter's in position, stretcher's ready!"

"Thanks, Sam! Well, Stan, time to say goodbye!"

For some reason the agent's words didn't quite inspire the reporter, and neither did the unzipped body bag. "Is… this necessary?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Don't worry, we prepared everything." Branson looked at the 'paramedics' inquisitively and the nearest of them took a silver thermos-sized cylinder with a rubber mask in place of its lid from the bag. "There is half an hour worth of air here, but you'll be let out much earlier. Everything will be alright, Stan."

"Well, if you say so…" the reporter calmed down and let the agents to shove him into the bag.

"Rotate here, breathe here," Thompson instructed him quickly as he gave him the cylinder. "And remember: complete immobility! You are dead, after all."

"Thanks…" Blather said very reservedly.

"Don't worry, Stan!" Branson cheered him up. "Those thought dead while alive live long and happy life! Good luck!"

"Take care, Trevor!" the reporter wished him back before his face got covered with the mask first and then with the bag's zipper.

"I'll try," the agent muttered looking at the door closed behind the stretcher and rubbed his eyelids which grew some twenty pounds heavier at once. "I'll try hard…"

He shook his head trying to drive sleep away, but his eyes become fixed at the now free bed. Blather left, nobody knew when another patient would come. He could easily drowse for five or ten minutes, it wouldn't hurt the hospital…

"Brace yourself! Stop! Think again!" the special agent kept ordering himself. But his own thoughts were sounding somewhere far away while his gaze was glued to the pillow invitingly resting against the bedhead and the bedsheet enticingly naked under carelessly thrown blanket. As if feeling his resistance, they came to him themselves, gradually increasing in size and edging out all other images and feelings…

"Mister Branson!" Salinger's voice snatched him from oblivion. Trevor shook and found that had he made another step his knee would have hit the bed's edge. _I'm getting old… _he thought sadly and tried to smile to make a not so distressing impression.

"Mister Branson, are you alright?" Howard grew really alarmed. You would, too, if you found an elderly African American looking at you from under his brows with his char red eyes and a sour smile from ear to ear.

"Got any coffee, Howard?" Branson thought he was speaking loudly but his subordinate heard very little.

"What, sir?" Salinger asked making a small step ahead with such a facial expression as if he was thinking whether he should take his gun out or abstain from provoking this zombie any further.

"Is there any more coffee?"

"In the vending machine, maybe…"

"Good. I feel I need it… Although, you'd be driving, in any case… Aren't you tired, by the way?"

"No, absolutely not! My shift began in the evening."

"Oh, so you are fit as a fiddle! That's good. We'll take my car, it's faster than the standard service ones…"

"Are we going far?" Salinger inquired.

"New York, Central Park police precinct. I've got GPS in the car, we won't get lost… Have you got the phone?"

"No, you haven't told to. But I can—"

"Constance's."

"Oh, Connie's… I got it!"

"Really?" Branson wagged his finger at Salinger jokingly. "Lying to your superior, even half-asleep, is a criminal offence…"

"I know, agent Branson! I'm not lying!"

The faces of two agents standing beside him were so full of skepticism Trevor couldn't stand it. "Call her."

"Why?" Howard asked but did take his cell phone out.

"I want to say her something. Don't worry, I'm not going to wolf her from you."

"Never thought that," Salinger laughed a bit strained than usual but still dialed the number. "Connie? It's Howard. My boss, special agent Branson, wants to speak with you. I'm giving him the phone."

"Miss Lennox?" Branson asked first and smiled when he heard a cautious answer. "It's Trevor Branson, agent Salinger's superior. On behalf of the whole United States Secret Service I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. I know, we weren't the easiest visitors but we had our reasons for it… …Yeah, it's our job, you nailed it. You're obviously a smart girl! Thank you very much! Basically, that's it. Don't want to distract you anymore! Happy shift! …Sure I'll tell him! Goodbye, Miss Lennox! And for you, Agent Salinger, all the best and heated kiss!" he said as he returned the phone to its owner. The young agent blushed, and one of his betting colleagues sighed heavily and reached for his wallet which pleased Trevor very much. "Okay, Howard, let's go. Here's the keys, the car's on the lot. Mercury Marauder, black. Drive to the service exit as discreetly as pos—" The ending of the phrase was muffled by the ward door slamming shut behind them.

"Dale! Dale!" Foxglove called her beloved one who didn't react to this event. "You asleep or what? Dale! Branson's leaving!"

"Show must go on…" Dale mumbled without opening his eyes, but then snapped up as if struck by lightning. "Leaving?! Why?! Where?!"

"To the service exit. He and Salinger go to New York, to the Central Park police precinct!"

"Really?!" Dale woke up completely and cheered up. "It's not far from the HQ! Let's go!"

"Wait! What about Blather?!"

"What about him? You heard they are taking him to Washington, to Reed Medical Center! Come on!"

The bat wanted to object but Dale had already disappeared behind the corner of the shaft and she could only follow him and watch that he wouldn't fall into some ventilation well or worse in the dark. Foxglove flew fast but had to stray for some time, and she and the chipmunk riding her got to the service exit almost at the same time as Salinger did. Branson asked him to open the rear door beforehand and it took him just a couple of seconds to lay prone on the backseat. Howard sped up instantly, and the Rangers who barely managed to take their seats on the rear bumper had to grab the license plate in a deep recess in the trunk cover. Luckily for them, the speed was strictly limited on the hospital grounds and by the time the car reached highway they found all footholds they needed for a comfort trip and could allow themselves to relax and look around. Branson could, too, but he preferred forty minutes of sound sleep to watching urban landscapes of Hoboken and Manhattan.

Although New York Police Department Precinct 22, more widely known as the Central Park precinct, was located almost in the geographical center of its beholden 840-acre territory, the Rescue Rangers had been to it just a few times during the existence of their team, and always by some accident. It was not because it was located on the opposite side of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir but rather because it was very, even obscenely quiet. In the last twenty years the crime rate in the Park grew more than ten times lower and it once again became what he was envisioned to be — an isle of tranquility in the very heart of the City That Never Sleeps.

Precinct 22 wasn't asleep either, although it wasn't immediately apparent. No running, no sirens wailing, no roaring cars flying along the overpass. Actually, there were no overpass at all, for the precinct occupied a former stable built in 1871 which made it the New York's oldest police precinct. The ancient building was being reconstructed according to XXI century requirements, and the police officers huddled in a temporal shelter, a two-storied metallic structure whose shape and color resembled a brick and, if it weren't for the large white letters along the entire wall reading 'Central Park Precinct' it would look very much like some 24-hour mini-market.

"We should split!" Dale announced when the car stopped. "Watch Branson, and I'll run to the HQ in case Chip and Gadget are there!"

"Maybe the other way around?" Foxglove offered. "After all, I've got wings and I can find my way in the dark better…"

"No, I will go!" the chipmunk objected, anxious to see the mouse inventor again. But then he recalled what his previous visit to the HQ ended with, and changed his mind abruptly. "Though, no, that is, you're right! You fly to the HQ. After all, you've got wings and stuff and the like…"

"Okay! I'll be quick! Don't get bored without me!" Foxglove kissed Dale in his nose and rose into the air. The chipmunk, on the contrary, jumped down on the ground and ran after the Secret Service agents. They were entering the building already and almost crushed their furry follower with the door, but all went well.

Making sure her beloved chipmunk was inside, the bat tripled her wing-flapping efforts heading north towards their oak. The sonar image of the tree that became her home was firmly embedded in her memory, and she found it with no problems, discerning the needed crown well in advance from the seemingly inseparable carpet of twigs and leaves below. There was no light, and nobody answered her ringing and knocking at the door. She couldn't open the locks with her wings, so she used an emergency bathole made for her specifically. Getting inside, Foxglove made sure there was nobody at the HQ aside from her, just furniture and smooth walls. _I wonder if they took the Gyrotank… _she asked herself when another sonic signal reflected from the phone in the living room. _If they did… I should check it!_

She ran to the stairs down but froze upon hearing a quiet creak. The knob on the front door was turning.

"CHIP! GADGET!" she shouted merrily seeing her dear friends on the threshold. They saw in the darkness far worse than her, and were frightened by the shouts from the dark at first.

"Foxy, is it you?" Chip shouted, first to recognize his friend's voice.

"Me, me!" Foxglove said flying out of the dark and embracing them both, her wingspan allowing it easily. "Gosh, I'm so glad to see you! Where have you been?"

"Oh, where we were!" Gadget answered. "And where's D— I mean, well…"

"It's a long story," Chip picked up his stuttering wife's baton. He was telling the truth, for the story of their return had as many twists and turns as an average techno-thriller. "Better tell us where's Dale?"

"Dale? Oh, he's in the police station, the one in the park. Watching the Secret Service agents who investigate the attempt to kill Blather."

"Blather?" Gadget asked.

"Secret Service?" Chip inquired. "The one protecting the President? Interesting…"

Gadget touched his elbow. "Don't worry. I'm sure the explosion covered all our tracks!"

Foxglove looked at them as if they were patients of National Institute of Mental Health. "What explosion? He was thrown from the bridge!"

Chip and Gadget exchanged glances, realizing they won't be able to have any sleep any time soon.

"I'll call Washington," the leader of the Rescue Rangers said. "And you prepare… Oh, wait, what vehicles do we still have?"

"Gyrotank," Foxglove suggested helpfully.

Gadget cleared her throat. "You see, Foxy—"

"Later!" Chip shouted knowing too well it would be long. "What else?"

"We should have Easter Tank somewhere… Oh, no, I remember now, we presented it to the Cola Cult for Christmas! What else, what else… Dale's helicopter! But it won't carry two…"

"It will hold me," the chipmunk observed. "And Foxy will carry you! Can you?"

The bat scratched behind her ear. "I think I can, she weighs less than Dale—"

"I know!" Gadget exclaimed suddenly. "We've got the Rangercycle!"

"Will it carry us all?" Chip doubted. "It was a little small just for the two of us…"

"If you aren't swinging your lasso, we'll all fit! I think. Maybe. We'll see! By the way, Foxy, switch on the light, for I can see nothing. And I'm not speaking of the Rangercycle here, it's too few photons are flying about, although 'flying' is a wrong word here, for photons are waves, they spread… What was I talking about?"

"Rangercycle!" Chip shouted from across the living room. He didn't wait for his wife to finish his thought and was already dialing the Wing's number. "Foxy, help her! You're my only hope!"

"What does he mean?" the bewildered inventor asked her friend.

"No idea!" the bat answered. It was a lie, for the bat instantly knew she was required not to let Gadget get distracted by some secondary but terribly interesting problem. In practice, though, the mouse needed rescuing not from revelations but from tiredness. The day turned out so tense that no sooner had the inventor reached the second tier she felt irresistible attraction towards her bedroom and if it weren't for Foxglove's pointing and directing wings she wouldn't reached the workshop.

The Rangercycle was exactly what it sounded like: a two-wheeled rodent-sized motorcycle with parabolic windshield and a dashboard consisting of three dials. Two smaller on each side showed time and the true north, while the larger central one showed speed. Chrome exhausts on each side hinted at the powerful combustion engine while in truth the motorcycle ran on the battery hidden under drop-shaped 'tank' and the 'exhausts' were decor only. Dale asked Gadget to install them so that the Rescue Rangers' 'stallion of steel' didn't look like a village veterinarian's moped.

Making sure the vehicle was in working condition, the two friends sent it down via the special elevator and went back to the living room. There they woke up Chip fallen asleep embracing the cell phone and they all went down to the garage snatching some coffee bean pieces from the kitchen on their way for a bit of energy.

"Will it carry us all?" Foxglove repeated Chip's question when the group came up to the Rangercycle and saw that it was a bit short for three passengers.

"Barely," the chipmunk answered. "And I thought about bringing the cell phone along… Who'll drive?"

"Me," Gadget said yawning.

Foxglove shivered a little. "Maybe, I should drive? I see in the dark like it's a day…"

"No worries, we've got headlight," Gadget tenderly knocked her small claw against the Rangercycle's glass eye. "Come on!"

Chip was going to sit on the very edge of the seat, above the exhausts, and let Foxglove occupy the passenger's seat. But her long and wide wings turned out to obscure Gadget's view, so they had to switch.

"All set? Ready to ride?" Gadget asked one last time.

"Ready!" Gadget shouted.

"Ughm!" Chip mumbled from under her wing.

"In that case, Rescue Rangers away!" Gadget proclaimed. Suppressing an inconvenient yawn, she put a large piece of coffee in her mouth and pressed the starter button. In absence of combustion engine there was no need to rotate the pedal, and the buzzing Rangercycle flew out into the night. Cold air, ground bumps and Gadget's driving manner chased the sleepiness away, provoked thought of the omnitemporal issues and loosened tongues.

"What explosion were you talking about?" Foxglove asked. Chip wanted to ask her what happened to Blather, but his wife was faster, and in the end Foxglove found out everything about bugs, shooting, explosion and chase. She also found out that the method of rising sinking ships can be adapted to the task of putting the gyrotank's hull back on the skateboard with no problems, you just need to make a deep enough sap, and use a soccer ball camera taken from the nearest — only a quarter of mile away — human dwelling as a water-filled pontoon. After that you just need to fasten the hall with a few layers of duct tape brought from the same house, which isn't a trivial task if your height is close to the duct tape width, and it's also very fresh and sticky. On the bright side, the following problems with hair dryer, electric engine, battery and gyroframe's rotation mechanism seemed cakewalk in comparison. It was still impossible to ride far or fast, though, especially when an unsuccessful attempt to drop from the bridge onto a passing dump truck resulted in failure of suspension of all wheels at once…

The bat grew sad. "So you left the gyrotank there?"

Gadget giggled. "No, of course not! There was a railway station nearby—"

"Nearby?" her husband intruded.

"Well, let's say it wasn't as far as it could be! We boarded incidental freight train to Weehawken and switched to the ferry there. Turned out, it went to Queens first and then to Manhattan, but it took us right into the Riverside Park! Very convenient!"

"So you did bring it in? But I didn't notice it in the garage…"

"That's because we left it eight hundred and fifty-three feet away from the HQ," the inventor explained. "We were too exhausted to push it any further."

Chip hemmed at the word 'we' but said nothing paralyzed with the view of a boulder, enormous by rodent standards, dashing by a one hundredth of inch away from his face. "Gadget, aren't we going too fast?"

"No, we aren't! It's just the third speed!" Gadget said answering two questions at once: what exactly the speedometer's hands and calendar window inherited from the wristwatch showed, and why only Gadget could drive the Rangercycle. It wasn't very relieving thought, but, fortunately, they were almost there.

Leaving the Rangercycle in the darkest corner of the parking lot, the Rangers approached the precinct building. One of the sections of a large window on the first floor was ajar, and in a minute the heroes were in a spacious, crowded and brightly lit hall. Since the building was temporary, it had little furniture and they had to move in short bounds from one cover to another. On the other hand, all the doors were transparent, which made locating the room with Branson, Salinger and a staff officer much easier.

"See for yourselves," the officer was addressing his guests blotting his sweaty bald spot with a handkerchief. "There are forty-five Roberts in the entire Auxiliary Police, but no of them had ever patrolled our park with Jason, Jacob, Jonathan, John, Joseph or anyone else starting with the letter. So your suspect's alibi is in deep trouble!"

"Indeed!" Branson grinned celebrating exposing of the prime suspect in a convoluted case of forged passports all the twists of which he made up on the fly. He stretched and nodded at the door. "It's so quiet here. I bet your patrolmen never spent their entire load of tickets on their watch."

"Oh, please!" the staff officer waved him off. "They rarely spend even half of those. But they take many of those with them, to have enough and to spare. You can't patrol the territory with no tickets, you can get reprimand to be placed in your file for that."

"Strict rules!" Trevor smiled and scratched his mustache. Dale stuck his head out from behind the table-leg he used as his cover— and jumped up in horror when somebody placed his paw on his shoulder.

"Quiet!" Chip ordered. "Of the Humans will hear us! Hell, by the way! Stylish rags!"

"You, too," Dale muttered rubbing a goose-egg on his head. "Hi Gadget, what's up?"

"Gyrotank broke down but we—"

"Later!" her husband intervened. "Let's listen what they're talking about."

Everybody became all ears, but nothing was coming above except tapping of keys and occasional harumph. Finally Branson spoke. "And I thought to get all the answers in one place. Sweet dreams, yeah… Well, thank you very much, officer! You really helped us out!"

"Not at all," the police officer got up to usher them out.

"I wouldn't thank you if it were nothing! We'll put this swindler on his heels now!"

"Nice to hear that! Although I'd never imagine the people of your rank to look for simple swindlers."

"I wouldn't, too!" Branson smiled. "But what could we do? Summit's approaching, we've got too few people, so I had to remember my youth! Of course, I lack my former stamina, so every hint is blessing!"

"I understand!" the police officer nodded. "In that case, I'll give you another one. You're going to Brooklyn, right? Avoid the intersection of Sixty-second East and Lexington, it's off limits at the moment."

Trevor's heart skipped a bit. "What happened there?" he asked as carefree as he could so as not to show his interest to this address.

"Murder. I don't know any details, it's not our case, but it's sensational one, I'm telling you!"

"Victim is someone important?"

"News director for Channel Six and his driver."

Branson grew pale. "Channel Six? You sure it was Channel Six?"

The staff officer sighed heavily and opened the day's report. "If you don't believe me, look here. 'Victims: Jefferson, Tobias, 64, news director, Channel Six, and Martin. Frank, 36, driver, Channel Six…' That's all because of that program, mark my words! The Black Table did it, I'm telling you!"

"Maybe you're right," Trevor nodded slowly. "Life runs high here, apparently… Sixty-second East and Lexington, you say? Alright, we'll drive through Park Avenue, then! Thanks for the advice!"

"I was happy to help!" the police officer smiled shaking their visitors' hands. "Good luck finishing the case!"

"Have a quiet shift!" Branson wished back.

"Thank you," the clerk said fatalistically. He was fed up with quiet shifts already. Like many people of his profession, he dreamt of days full of investigations, shadowing, clues gathering, witnesses questioning, and breathtaking arrests with chases and shoot-outs. Had his dream come true, though, he wouldn't have stood it and pleaded to be transferred back before the end of his first working week. But let's be honest: no dreamer ever stopped chasing his dream, no matter how perilous it really was.

"Where now, Mister Branson?" Salinger asked when they exited the precinct.

"Why do you ask me dumb questions?" his companion was sincerely surprised. "To the intersection of Sixty-second East and Lexington, of course!"

"Why did you mention Park Avenue then?"

"Because the last phrase is remembered the best," Branson instructed him opening the door of his Marauder. He had no time and no desire to sleep, so he sat next to Howard.

"They're leaving, leaving!" Dale shouted pointing at the moving car.

"It's okay," Chip assured him and the others. "We know where they are going. Alright, the Rangercycle can carry only three passengers…"

"Two, actually," Gadget corrected him. "According to the project, that is."

"This data is outdated. So, Dale… No, better you, Foxy. Go to the HQ and wait for our teammates from Washington. As soon as they come, you all should fly to the Channel Six building. Monty knows where it is."

"Why?" Dale didn't get the logic. "They're going to Brooklyn!"

"Not to Brooklyn, fool, but to that intersection where the murder happened! And they'll go to Channel Six from there!"

"How do you know that?"

"I read detective stories!" Chip zipped his jacket showing the conversation was over. "Alright, let's run! Dale, you're with us! You'll tell us what's going on the way there. I never thought I'd say something like that, but I didn't watch TV for too long…"

* 27 *

Chip's intuition proved correct. After talking to the police officers at the crime scene, Branson and Salinger went to the studio of the WBC New York branch where the victims worked. Trevor never was a vivacious type, but now he was as black as thunder. The circumstances of Jefferson's death left no doubts that the same people who gave Blather the materials did it. The scheme was repeated to the tiniest detail. The same intersection, the same traffic lights trick, the same crowd of angry motorists under cover of which the perpetrator approached the needed car. This time he didn't get inside, though, but came up to the driver's window and first shot him in his forehead and then the news director who sat in the back. Night, engines humming, blacked-out windows — in short, nobody saw or heard anything. A cold-blooded, cruel, and masterfully executed kill. No fingerprints, no footprints. Only two fired cartridges and .357 SIG Sauer P229 with silencer left by the killer. Weapon of police officers, air marshals and Secret Service agents…

_Where are you keeping yourselves?!_ Trevor swore seeing once again that there were no messages from Dahlstrom's and Henderson's groups. He had no right to call them. Every call via public mobile network left a trace which could easily prove fatal. When they reach their destinations, they will send him a message via specialized secure and encrypted line. Branson could only wait, hope, believe, and look for the answers for the questions badly demanding those. Like, who and why killed Jefferson and his driver.

The information from the police precinct confirmed suspicions Trevor had back in the hospital. It wasn't the cops talking to Blather, but 'David's' associates. It was a masterfully calculated psychological test. Had Blather given up to the pressure and told them about 'David' and the disk, he would have been killed on the spot. But he lied them. Tricked them and, through them, all officers of all law-enforcement agencies. After that the 'underground patriots', whoever they were, could sleep peacefully knowing that Blather would never go to the police. Now all the police in the world were his enemies, and his won deeds were the reason for it.

That made it even less clear why they tried to kill him. He didn't know who 'David' was, he didn't see his face. Sure, he heard his voice, but the voice can be changed almost completely by speaking louder or quieter than usual, putting cotton balls behind your cheeks, adding accent. They got thoroughly prepared for meeting Stan and could deliberately choose the Midwestern parlance he was accustomed to knowing he would grasp this detail and pay no attention to the rest. And, basically, it worked…

_Why they wanted to kill him, then? He did everything they asked him and even more than that. By now the whole America watched his show, and it's not an overstatement. The words 'MAP' and 'mouse-assassin' will be used to scare unruly children for years to come. What else 'David' could want?_

Unfortunately, in order to answer the question he need to know the true goals of this 'underground'…

_What if it weren't them who tried to kill Blather?_

Another interesting version to be sure. Branson recalled how several hours ago, when John informed him of the attempted murder of the reporter, he considered who could want him dead. There was a whole bunch of those, first of all relatives and colleagues of those perished in the explosion. How many had they dug out already? Last time he checked the confirmed deaths count was getting close to 200. It's a lot. And the number of those who would want to avenge their untimely deaths was at least five times greater. So, at a conservative estimate, there were a thousand of suspects among which there could easily be a couple of good friends with connections in law enforcement agencies and access to a very specific version of Ford Crown Victoria…

_But what if it isn't the revenge of the individuals? What if the CIA as a whole is behind it?_

And who's behind the murder of Jefferson? Also CIA?

_That's entirely possible… _

It would be. If it weren't a detailed copy of the 'underground' scheme which could be known to its members only.

Although, considering that at least one of them had access to top secret materials, it's reasonable to suggest that the sets of 'undergrounders' and CIA agents partially overlap…

_No, wait, it's even sillier that way. They can't be avenging Blather for their own fault!_

Or can they? Even normal people find it easier to blame someone else than admit their fault, much less some undiagnosed 'patriots'...

_What if it's a coincidence?_

Well, it could be. If both 'undergrounders' and Jefferson's killers are working for the CIA, they could easily have similar style. Of course, the probability of them choosing the exact same place is low, but then again, who knows why 'David' chose this particular intersection. Maybe it's the only place in the entire city where one can do it. Not to mention that this obvious similarity can prove that 'underground' wasn't involved. Indeed, what fool will come twice to the already exposed location? But the CIA agents didn't know where 'David' intercepted Blather and chose the same intersection. Nothing personal, it just happened…

"We're driving too long, Howard. I hope we didn't miss our turn?"

"No," Salinger pointed at the GPS navigator screen. "Just one more block."

Turned out, the building they needed was impossible to miss. If an enormous shining logo on the roof could theoretically be overlooked, only a blind man could miss the row of police cruisers by the roadside. Carefully parking near them, the special agents asked the nearest patrol officer where they could find the detective conducting the investigation and were directed to the sixth floor. Arriving later, the Rescue Rangers went there, too, not in the elevator though but under it as all those do who value covertness higher than comfort.

The patrol officer warned his colleagues about the visit of high-ranked guests, and in the reception area under the WBC logo sculpted on the wall right in front of the elevators another uniformed police officer awaited them along with a lengthy flaming-red man wearing worn overcoat with a badge fastened to the front pocket.

"Detective Muldoon, NYPD," the plain-clothed man introduced himself showing his upper teeth, big as hare's. "What brings you here, gentlemen?"

"Your case," Branson handed him the fax from the White House. "Please, see for yourself."

Muldoon saw for himself and was impressed. "Wow, two Secretaries, Director of National Intelligence and President himself… You imply this murder is connected with Blather's death?"

"It's the current working version," Trevor said evasively as he took the document back. "What can you tell us about Mister Jefferson?"

The patrol officer staying to guard the elevators, they went to the opposite corner of the hall and the detective fetched a flea-bitten notebook from his pocket. "The bodies were found around half past midnight. Two headshots, close range."

"I know that, we've met your assistant, Mahoney, at the crime scene. What the studio employees say? When did he leave, what he did before leaving?"

"According to Susan Spaulding, the television director, he left around ten, after the evening news. He usually left around half past two AM, but today he wasn't in his best shape so to say, and Miss Spaulding almost forced him to leave earlier. About that time Frank Martin, the driver, returned from Maplewood… By the way, he rode Blather home! What a coincidence, huh?"

"Yes, interesting. What else Miss Spaulding said?"

"That she had something like bad premonition and that it was her fault. Usual set, in other words. Interesting fact: yesterday was Mister Jefferson's last working day. He retired due to health issues."

"Really?" Branson was dead tired to feign his interest to the things he'd already known, but the secrecy demanded sacrifices. "Just in time… Why did the channel's driver drove him home then?"

"Because everybody here loved and respected Mister Jefferson, and also because he was drunk and couldn't drive."

"Well, he had the reason to get drunk, that's for sure… By the way, did he know of Blather's death?"

"Most probably, no. He left before it appeared on TV, and the car radio was off."

"Car radio?" Branson looked at the detective with respect. "You're good! Few would have noticed this detail, and even fewer would have used it in their reasoning. You're fan of Columbo, right?"

Muldoon was confused. "You guessed it right. Is it that obvious?"

"Attention to details and specific style really give you out," Branson laughed and extended his hand. "Trevor."

"Derek," Muldoon accepted the handshake and waved further along the corridor. "Mister Jefferson's office is that way. Shall we go?"

"You're reading my thoughts!" Trevor smiled even wider. "You remind me of my friend and colleague, John Blunt. He usually knows what I need better than me!"

"Amazing!" the flattered detective was surprised. "You know, Trevor, you remind me my partner, too!"

"Really?" Branson compared himself with the detective they met at the intersection. "I wouldn't say me and Mister Mahoney have something in common…"

"Who? No, of course not!" Derek laughed. "You can't be compared to Mahoney! I was talking about Josh Kirby, we served together as patrol officers in the Fifth precinct. You look very much alike, although he's broader in shoulders. He's a sergeant now, oversees eight patrols at once. And I am a detective in Manhattan South bureau. Time flies…"

"Relentlessly," Branson agreed.

Salinger silently walked behind them, once again astonished by his boss' skill to find a way with people of different occupations and ranks. His boss knew this detective for a few minutes only, but was already talking to him like they were old friends, and when Muldoon started telling through laughing an anecdote from his and Kirby's career Howard felt himself left far behind. Still, he had no real reasons to complain, for he didn't need to hide like Rescue Rangers. The little heroes found the floor too crowded with humans and too brightly illuminated for their liking, so they first climbed onto the elevator roof along the cords and from their found their way into a space between real and floating ceilings. Thus they didn't have to worry about being spotted but they had to run from one vent to another in order to hear anything.

"Wow, Kirby's a sergeant and Muldoon's a detective!" Gadget wondered after another 'communication session'. "And I thought where they went… When did they do that?"

"Right when you were in… uhm…" Chip paused in confusion, not knowing how to put it delicately.

"On vacation!" Dale came to his help. "On creative vacation! And nowhere else!"

The mouse lowered her ears. "Well, I wouldn't say so, especially concerning 'creative', for 'creative' means creation of something, not destruction, and surely not murder, although you won't get far without creative approach in this field, too… Well, that is… In short, thanks, Dale!"

"You're welcome," the chipmunk answered as if nothing happened. In contrast to Chip, slightly pale after his wife's words, Dale took them in good spirit. Nothing, and certainly not such trifle thing like professional deformation of personality, could not change his attitude towards her.

"…So we knock the door off, enter, and this pseudo-baby falls on our necks and begs to arrest him! Imagine that! He shouts he'll admit everything and is ready to do anything to get behind the bars where these animals won't get him! Animals, come think of it! Crazy!" Muldoon finished his tale and summed it all up. "So you're not the first to encounter MAP's, it was me and Josh! Ha!"

"Those were really MAPs?" Trevor inquired.

"Are you joking?" the detective grunted as he tried to suppress a burst of laughter. "What MAPs? It was a long time ago! And please, don't tell me you believe in it!"

"And if I tell you I do, then what?"

"Then you're either a hopeless dreamer or—" Muldoon looked at the agent askew. "Or you know much more than the rest."

"I saw the rat and the syringe with my own eyes. Will that do?"

"So I was right. This way, please." Nodding at the policeman guarding the door, the detective ushered his guests into Jefferson's former office. Rescue Rangers had to squeeze into a narrow cable duct running in the needed direction in order not to fall too far behind.

"No, he's really good!" Dale went on. "Keen wit, eagle's eye, killing humor! They must be relatives with Will Smith!"

"But it's not the reason to lose Blather!" Chip didn't even try to hide his irritation. "Everything's connected to him! And now, because of you, we have no idea where he is!"

"Say for yourself! I have an idea!"

"You don't!"

"I do!"

"Don't!"

"Do!"

"Don't!"

"Do!"

"And where's he now?"

"I won't tell you!"

"Aha!" Chip triumphed. "So you don't know!"

"I do!" his red-nosed fellow objected. "You're just bad!"

"I'm not bad but just! So where's Stan?"

"In Washington, where else!"

"Uh-hu! In Reed Medical Center, yes?"

Dale was dumbfounded but he didn't give up. "Yup! Right there! Branson said it! And I believe him!"

"Stop being an idiot, Dale! It's just a cover-up, don't you see? It's a smoke screen!"

"Exactly!" Dale was glad to hear a known word. "Cover! That's what Branson said! It's like the movie 'Die While There Is Time'! One of the villains is hiding in a secret hospital on Cuba waiting for the plastic surgery! They want to do the same with Blather! They'll change his face and no Black Table will ever recognize him! And since the process is very long, they put him into First Lady Hospital where Reed himself will cover them! Well, it's the other way around, but I'm sure you got it!"

"Oh, I got it very well! And from your own words, although I'm sure you misquoted half of it!"

"You calling me misquoted?!"

"But," Chip went on, "even from your report I can tell that only Blather's belongings and his 'body' went to Reed Center, but not him himself! That's why they need the First Lady's assistance who's also the Surgeon General of the US! I wouldn't be surprised if she conducted the 'autopsy' personally! And Blather and his family are under guard by the witness protection program, with new documents and living on some remote farm! So I ask you again — where's Stan?"

"Ask Waldo!" Dale muttered arrogantly. Chip raised his fist to bonk him, but Gadget cleared her throat politely. "Sorry to interrupt you, but don't you think we've been here already?"

The chipmunks joined their efforts and determined that they had truly been here already, thus they needed to take another turn on the next intersection. Their second attempt to find the way was more successful and the duct led them to the decorative grate right above the Jefferson's desk.

"…and that's all we've found," they heard Muldoon's voice as he finished informing his guests about the search results.

"Are these his belongings?" Branson asked looking into a cardboard box on the desk.

"Yes. He was going to pick them up tomorrow morning."

"You mentioned family photos. Where are they?"

"Somewhere here…" Muldoon came up to the desk and began to rummage through the folders scattered over it. "Search is a very strange thing. Everything's seems to be here, but it takes so much time to find something…"

"Just like my closet," Branson smiled.

"And not only yours!" the police detective agreed. "Come on where are they… Oh, here they are! All five!"

"Thanks," Trevor took the framed pictures—

—and almost dropped them as he looked at the first photo.

"No, it can't be…" he whispered. He even screwed his eyes hoping to chase the illusion away. Nevertheless, young Samuel Peter Jackson was still looking at him from the photo.

"Something wrong, Mister Branson?" Muldoon asked. "Do you know him?"

"No," Trevor shook his head and pretended to examine the photo carefully. "No, just mind games. This guy looks very much like my old friend's nephew, and I thought, what is he doing here? But no, it's not him… Did you listen to the voice recorder?"

"Voice recorder?" the detective was surprised. "You mean the secretary's answering machine?"

"No, his own one."

"We found nothing like that… What are you doing?" Derek almost jumped when Branson started knocking at the desk surface.

"Your job," Trevor answered. Squatting down, he meticulously examined the edge of the tabletop, hemmed knowingly and pressed a button barely visible against the wood pattern with a pen he took out from his pocket. There was a click, and a small spring-mounted section of the tabletop rose, revealing a console with controls for answering machine and voice recorder.

"Whoa!" Salinger was so astonished he forgot he was 'left behind'. "If the news director has it, their president must have, like, a couple of machine guns!"

"News is a serious business," Muldoon agreed. "How did you know where to look for it?"

"It's a secret," Branson was smiling but not joking. "Derek, can I ask you a favor?"

"It depends," the detective answered cautiously. First the agent lied him about the photo, now he was beating about the bush. Apparently, the niceness limit ran out.

"Please, leave us alone."

"I can't, this is a crime scene."

"Which you investigate no longer. Howard, call our Brooklyn office, tell them to send four teams here and one to the intersection of Sixty-second East and Lexington. It was nice to meet you, Derek. You're a good detective, and if you keep it up, I'm sure I'll see you in Washington soon. And now please excuse me, me and Agent Salinger have a work to do. My people will come to you to take the case materials around nine AM. Good luck!"

He got up and extended his hand. It was clear that Muldoon was having doubts whether to shake it or leave the room and slam the door, but in the end the professionalism defeated the ego and the handshake occurred.

"Howard, check that everybody left!" Branson ordered his assistant when Howard finished talking to Secret Service New York field office. Then he wrapped his handkerchief around his finger, decreased volume and played the oldest saved recording.

"_Good day, Mister Jefferson, it's me again."_

"_And still no name?"_

"_That's inconvenient, I agree, but believe me, it's better for everyone this way…"_

"Interesting conversation, don't you think?" Trevor asked when the recording ended.

"I do…" Salinger said slowly, still in stupor. "It's unbelievable… If the press finds it out, the CIA's finished…"

"The press won't get away easily, too," Branson leant back in the armchair and rubbed his eyes which started picking straws again. "Howard, how far is Brooklyn from here?"

"Not too far. Seven to eight miles."

"Not nine, that's good enough… Be my friend, find some coffee for both of us."

"Sure, sir," Salinger went searching for the source of the coveted elixir of vivacity, and Trevor began to listen to the other recordings, simultaneously planning his first investigative actions. And who knows what results his investigation would have if the conversation between Jefferson and 'Godfather' wasn't heard by one of already only two living creatures able to recognize this authoritative voice…

"It's him…" Chip muttered. Hearing the very first 'Godfather's' words, he felt weak and sat down on the plaster slab. "It was him talking to Ferrante and Snow that night… It's him, I'm sure! It's the man from the Black Table!"


	7. Chapter 6 Look and See

**PART II**

**PERSONAL MATTER**

**Chapter 6**

**Look and See**

* 28 *

_Day Third, night—morning_

"Ah, Agent Branson! I heard a lot about you! Very, very pleased to meet you!" upon meeting Trevor said special agent Rustin Parr, the first assistant of the head of Secret Service New York field office. Less than an hour after Salinger's call the subordinates of this gorbellied and buoyant man with straw-colored mustache flooded the Channel Six studio. Taking the recordings of the Jefferson's subordinates' interviews from the police, these severe plain clothed men and women started fervently re-interviewing everybody who were still in the building and rechecking every snag in the other documents. They started with the search report of the victim's office, so Branson, after issuing all necessary orders concerning the photograph and the recording, went into the corridor with Salinger to drink some coffee and talk to the head of the incoming group without interfering with their work.

"Same here, Agent Parr! And here's Howard Salinger, our colleague from Newark office, so please make him feel welcome!"

"But of course!" the New-Yorker laughed. "We've got a real international team here!" he said after handshakes.

"Yes, we'll be working together this time. From this moment on you, Agent Parr, and you, Agent Salinger, officially become members of the group investigating death of Tobias Jefferson and Stan Blather. My group. You'll be given specific tasks and you may use all the resources of your field offices at your own discretion to fulfill them. In case of any issues inform me or my first assistant, special agent John Blunt. Please note that you'll be provided with information of high and the highest secrecy levels. It will help you to assess the situation correctly, but also implies additional responsibility for you. I know it sounds tritely, but anyone can be an enemy. So I encourage you to use the information you'll receive in a smart and discreet way. Inform your subordinates on the need-to-know basis and remember that in case of the information leak you'll become the prime suspects automatically. Any questions?"

"I'm a part of your group?" Howard asked. "But I'm not the most experienced agent in Newark office at all…"

"When I spoke with Agent Corrigan, the head of your office, I asked him to send an intelligent guy whom he trusts like himself. He sent you. Any other questions, Agent Salinger?"

Realizing the weight of responsibility entrusted upon him, the young agent lost heart first, but quickly assumed a dignified air. "No more questions, Agent Branson!" he rapped out.

"I've got some," Parr joined in. "How exactly are our responsibilities divided?"

"By geographical principle. The consequences of Blather's death are investigated by Newark office." Branson pointed his thumb at Salinger. "Jefferson's murder is yours. But since these cases are closely related, you'll have to act together. And split the honors, unfortunately."

"Oh dear, they won't write about me in newspapers again," Rustin complained jokingly. "By the way, concerning newspapers. What's our cover in case of contacts with the press?"

"Panic retreat."

"Well, that's understood, but still? Maybe announce that Blather worked on program about counterfeiters who are suspected to have killed him? Or that he bought forged passports for him and his family?" Despite his smile, there was not a grain of irony in Parr's voice. "We should explain somehow why we are investigating the cases not matching our profile."

"Why not matching?" Branson was genuinely surprised. "They match it very well! We're investigating the attempt to assassinate the President during the Peace Ceremony and suspect that the eponymous Black Table is conspiring to attack the Millennium Summit, and the attack on the reporter who uncovered them is one of their preliminary actions. No more, no less!"

"Understood, no more questions."

"In that case, Agent Parr," Trevor opened the file he prepared on his phone, "I've got a few tasks for you and your people…"

"Oh, right, split the laurels but take all the tasks you see!" Rustin lamented for a show taking his own organizer out. "I'm listening."

"First, the desk-mounted voice recorder must be removed, sealed and sent to Washington to be picked up by special agent-in-charge Gyllenhaal, head of the Presidential Protection."

"Gyl-len-haal," Parr noted repeating every syllable. "I know him. What's second?"

"Second, gather all the materials concerning Jefferson's death from the police. What the police don't have, find out on your own. Find out what the victims did on that evening. Second by second. Find out whether Jefferson had always driven home along the same route, always passing this particular intersection and how this intersection differs from the rest. Dismantle the traffic lights and study every piece under a microscope. It's not a simple coincidence that it stayed red longer tonight. Third—"

"Please, slower, I'm writing it down…" Rustin pleaded having fallen far behind.

Trevor had mercy and paused for a few seconds to take a sip of coffee. "Third, carefully verify all the New York related information from the Blather's show, namely postal box, Bio-Tech and the complex reportedly housing that mysterious lab. Speaking of Blather. Call the WBC bosses and find out true reasons why Blather and Jefferson were fired."

"They fired Blather?" Rustin was so surprised he stopped typing.

"Yes, just yesterday in the evening. They furnished it as contract non-prolongation at Blather's request, but it's a lie. Find out the truth. Seek somebody who'll spill it out. I don't care who it will be, their president, his secretary or some photocopying clerk. Question everyone. Threaten, deceive, arrange confrontations of witnesses… Well, I don't need to teach you the basics. If they wish to speak off the record let them speak off the record. It's crucial that—"

"What's crucial?" Parr asked but Trevor suddenly dashed to the window at the end of the corridor and pressed his cheek to the glass trying to look as far as he could along the building's side.

"What's wrong, Mister Branson?" Salinger asked in alarm. "What's there?"

"Nothing, Howard," Trevor shook his head and finished his coffee in one gulp. "I really overworked today… So where did we stop?"

"On them speaking off the record," Parr prompted.

"Yeah, right. The record isn't important at this stage. The mere fact of pressure is. Or even batter, a name. Or a position. If there's a recording, it's a win. You'll probably hear some very unexpected names, so be not only attentive but also reserved. Contact me, Blunt or Gyllenhaal before taking any really serious steps. That's it for you for now."

"Got it," the agent from New York nodded understandingly. "We'll get to work at once."

"Yes, get to work. And stay in touch. Here's my card with all my coordinates. Call immediately, on any day at any hour. You, too, Howard."

"Sure thing," Salinger nodded twisting the business card with ornament embossment between his fingers. "But since I have no tasks…"

"Don't worry, that's not for long," Branson grinned carnivorously. "Alright, Rustin, I'm not keeping you any longer, see you later… Oh, by the way, does your office have a spare cot for a sleepy and dead-beat deputy head of presidential security?"

"For you we'll arrange the entire sofa!"

"Your generosity will be taken into account, Good Samaritan! The entire Secret Service in indebted to you!"

"I'll remember your words!" Parr warned.

Trevor laughed, but as soon as Rustin disappeared behind the corner he became serious again. "Alright, Howard, now it's your turn, and if I were you I'd be taking notes."

Salinger took out his phone but when Trevor saw it had no QWERTY keyboard he felt sorry for both of them and gave his younger colleague his notepad and pen. "Okay, first item. You must quickly gather all materials about the explosion in Blather's house and his dropping from the bridge from the FBI. Contact supervisory special agent Walter Coolidge and ask him to connect you with Berg you've already met. He was on this case from the start, even visited Blather at home, so he knows more than anyone else. Keep calm, don't succumb to Sanchez's provocations and there will be no hassle. Second item. You need to access the data that Stan Blather stored on the internet. Or rather, Freenet. Don't ask me what it is, I heard about it today, but I'm sure you'll puzzle it out. The key to the file is in Blather's box on the file sharing service…" Trevor dictated the exact URL address. "Login Stan60, password is unknown."

"But why? Blather—"

Branson gestured him to keep mum and looked around to make sure there was nobody around. Had he looked at the ventilation grate above he would have seen three very curious snouts behind the bars, but he didn't even think about glancing at the ceiling and simply went on in a slightly lowered voice. "He didn't remember it, too long and complex. So he wrote it down and kept it under his mattress and it burnt down along with the house."

"Some efforts…"

"Yes, he obviously read Lang's Fairy Books. But it's another story. Get a warrant and visit the owners of the service."

"Maybe we can do without it?" Howard lowered his voice in conspiratorial manner. "I know one guy knowledgeable in all those things…"

"What things?"

"Well, networks, servers—"

"No! No hackers! For the moment, at least. We should act officially whenever possible. Remember, every deviation from law and official procedures can and will be used against us. All of us. Understood?"

"Yes…"

"Next item. You need to find out how the press knew about the accident with Blather so fast. I'm aware that good journalists have eyes and ears everywhere, but if it turns out it was an anonymous signal like in Washington… I think you know what I mean."

"I do. If only they knew it…"

"Well, nobody said it's going to be easy!" Trevor slapped his younger colleague's shoulder. "The last, but probably the most important — the car of the abductors. Find it. I stress it: not look for it, but find it. Study the CCTV footage, question the witnesses, use aviation, satellites, ask Google if need be, but find it!"

"We'll find it, Agent Branson!" Salinger promised, after these words believing it was doable.

"I know. And now, Howard, please do me a solid: lift me to Brooklyn to our office, and in exchange I'll arrange you to be taken to Newark. Agreed?"

"No problems!" Howard grinned never knowing the effect of his words on the two chipmunks hiding nearby. "You need to have a rest, get some sleep…"

"Sad but true. I'll sleep for hours or so, for I'm already seeing mice in toy planes… Alright, let's go and stop obstructing the work."

"Did he really say 'mice in toy planes' or I imagined that?" Gadget asked thoughtfully when Branson and Salinger went to the elevators.

"You didn't imagine that," Chip confirmed. "Either he's having hallucinations from the lack of sleep, or it's our guys on the Wings. In that case they'll be waiting us on the roof… Let's run, or we'll miss the counterweight!"

The chipmunks and the mouse ran at full speed and came to the shaft right when Salinger pressed the ground floor button. Snatching a moment, the friends jumped on the slab coming from below which delivered them to the second floor from the top. From there it was just a short hop to the roof where Ranger Wing and the rest of the Rangers awaited them and ran towards them with shouts of joy.

Monterey Jack was the most eager, and his welcome roar howled everyone else's voices. "Fellas! At last! You can't imagine how I missed you! Gadget-luv, are you all right? Foxy told us so much our heads are spinning! They really shot at you? I'll turn those ruffians into canned cat food!"

"We all want it, Monty," Chip assured him. "But let's put off emotions for a time being. Start the engines, we need to— Where are you going, darling?"

"Into the cockpit!" Gadget responded climbing aboard. "Monty's too tired, I'll fly!"

Chip looked at the native of the Green Continent again and only now noticed his somewhat unsteady posture and that his bloodshot eyes were almost visible even through his flight goggles. It was no wonder that he gaped and flew so close to the building. Given his state, getting here without hitting anything on the way was already an accomplishment.

_I need to sleep a little, too… _Chip noted but since the leaders can't allow to show their weakness, he sportively jumped on the seat next to Gadget. "Come on, get in!" he told the rest of the gang. "We mustn't lose them!"

"Whom are we chasing?" Sparky asked jumping into the second row of the seats.

"Will Smith himself!" Dale joked.

"Really?!" Sparky was so confused he took it at face value. "I wanted so long to—" But then Gadget started the engines and his wish remained secret.

Diving from the roof so steeply it made all the passengers gasping for breath, the mouse carefully captured the discreetly parked Rangercycle with the telescopic claw and flew after the black Marauder turning around the corner. As expected, the car was heading towards Brooklyn, and Chip asked the Washington Four to report their findings in the capital in order not to waste any time. Forgoing his tiredness, Monterey Jack took the stage and did everything he could to make the report as rousing as all his stories. But since nothing particularly interesting happened to him and the others aside from the explosion, he finished when they were reaching their destination, so everybody got off cheap.

"Should I land there?" Gadget asked stopping the convertiplane not far from the narrow green-gray building the top floor of which was occupied by the United States Secret Service field office.

"No," Chip shook his head. "We'll just make sure he came here and went to sleep. Where did you put the binoculars, Monty?"

The only response was mighty snorting.

"MONTY!"

"MOMMY?!" the Aussie shook up almost turning the plane upside down. "But where's— Oh, my, it was just a dream…"

"No, it's not. Where're the binoculars?"

"Binoculars? You know, Chip, there's a little problem…"

"Don't tell me you exchanged them for cheese!"

"Don't mention cheese, please!" the heavy-weight pleaded. "I'm feeling peckish of hunger already, and when I'm thinking of a piece of Parmesan—"

"So what about the binoculars?" the chipmunk repeated the question starting feeling impatient.

"There are none," Tammy said.

Chip raised his eyebrows. "And where are they?"

"Shattered by the explosion," Sparky explained. "That is, by the plane falling after the explosion. Strange, I was sure I had repaired them. Or was it the headlamp? Or I just wanted to do that? I don't remember…"

"Strange! Who could have thought!" Dale jested.

"Stop it now!" the squirrel-nurse hissed.

"What's wrong?" the red-nosed rodent wondered. "Tell me that's not true!"

"What's not true? Tell me!" the rat-scientist became interested.

"Later!" Chip authoritatively brought the argument to the end. "Can you fly us closer, Gadget? But be careful."

"No problem!" she responded as usual, and her passengers instinctively checked where the parachutes were. But this time everything worked out fine and the Wing hovered on the level of the Secret Service office from the street side using the background of the nearby tall buildings as camouflage. The target building narrowed at the top and its last four floors were less than the lower ones but the heroes still had to make a couple of circles before spotting Branson. He was brought to an empty office in the building's north-western corner, and before Trevor closed the shutters the Rangers noticed a made sofa by the opposite wall.

"Great, he went to sleep," Chip said when the room lights went off. "He said he was going to sleep for four hours, so that's the time we've got to make our further plans. Dear, land us on the roof wherever you see fit."

The best landing spot from the inventor's point of view was a square metallic lid of a service hatch for the air conditioning system. Here, far from the prying eyes and illuminated by the obstruction lights, the memorable offsite meeting of the Rescue Rangers took place which was never mentioned even in the most detailed and reputable accounts of the events that followed…

"...That's what is known at the moment," Chip finished his short report of his and Gadget's adventures and of everything he heard from Dale and Monterey Jack.

"Oh my…" the strongmouse expressed the general opinion sitting on the back row of seats along with Foxglove and Zipper. "I consider myself some pretty old stager but even I've got my hand spinning around! How do you think, friends, shouldn't we turn to Cassandra?"

"NO!" Gadget and Dale sitting right behind her shouted together, frightening everyone including themselves.

"But why?" Monterey Jack asked being the first to recover from shock. "You really liked her!"

"Well, there's that thing…" the mouse began tentatively, trying hard to look anywhere but at Dale.

"It's, uhm, well…" the chipmunk joined in a similar fashion.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but who are you talking about?" that was, not surprisingly, Sparky.

"Haven't I told you about Cassie?" Monterey rejoiced. "Listen up, then! Once I went to—"

"Later, Monty!" Chip cut him short commandingly. "That's a long story and we've got too little time! As for your offer, we'd better not. Not that I'm having any grudges against Cassandra, but, well, her predictions are arcane by themselves and we need crystal clarity at the moment, not to mention that the previous time I almost— Well, it doesn't matter! Who's got any ideas?"

"We should look for that botanist of yours," Dale responded immediately.

"Chemist," Gadget corrected him. "The botanist is the one who—"

"Please, dear, not now," Chip asked her. "But although Dale was wrong, he's still right. Well, not literally, since he was still wrong, but… Oh boy, what's wrong with me…"

"That's the marriage effect!" Tammy winked at her former rapture object from the middle of the second row. Everybody laughed, including Chip. The squirrel's words got to him, actually, but he decided to take the opportunity to perk up at least a bit. "Back to the 'chemist'. Most probably it's someone of the MAP members, and, before proved otherwise, we'll assume that it's not, I repeat, not Archibald Snow. By this time the traces of these people got lost, but maybe we'll find some clues in the Blather's files. So first we must look through every single—"

"NO!" Foxglove shouted in the entire voice range available to her, crushing her friends with a sonic boom.

"You are against it, Foxy?" Chip asked when the ringing in his ears grew weaker.

"Yes!" the bat confirmed. "Our flash drives can be infected!"

"Well, he had antivirus and firewall," Gadget shrugged, still rubbing her blocked ear.

"And the latest update package," Chip added. "And his son's a geek!"

"I know those geeks," Foxglove hemmed. "But it's not the point. Gadget, you said that one of those bandits 'cleaned' the Blather's PC?"

"Well, he said so. Or rather, I understood it that way. Well, actually—"

"Thanks, that will do," the bat looked at the chipmunk wearing leather coat again. "You don't think he was blowing the dust off it, so you? They installed a bunch of spy utilities on it!"

As we already know, Foxglove was an undisputed authority in all computer-related questions, so nobody argued nor asked if she was sure of it. Only one question bothered everyone, and Chip voiced it. "How serious is it?"

"How do I know? Scan is required. But I think there was at least a Trojan covered by a rootkit which should have got there somehow, thus it must be capable to write itself on all the devices connected to the computer including flash drives."

Sitting in front of her, Dale began to shiver. "Wait, so their spy crawled onto our flash drive and now they know… WHERE WE LIVE?! NOOOO!"

"Don't get crazy, cutie!" Foxglove hushed at him and slapped him with her wing. "No program turn a simple flash drive into a beacon all by itself! But if it's inserted into a PC connected to the internet, it can send its masters its IP-address which they'll use to determine its location. That's really dangerous, no TOR can help against it… You haven't used those drives yet, have you?!"

"No, we haven't," Chip assured her and extracted the notepad and soiled pencil he always carried around along with his magnifying glass. "So, task number one: scan flash drives for viruses. Foxy, it's for you. Then examine Blather's materials with Sparky and check if they were changed somehow. Got it, Sparky? Sparky!"

"Huh? What? Who's there?" the rat woke up.

"Friends," Chip informed him. "Can you help Foxy with the materials?"

"What materials?"

"Those you sent to the Secret Service."

"I sent?" Sparky thought deeply and it helped. "Oh, yeah, right! I sent them! And I thought… I don't remember what I thought, so it's not important. When should I start?"

"Wait, how about Bio-Tech?" Tammy wondered. "You changed your mind about returning there?"

"Bio-Tech? Blast me! Sure! Actually, that's why I came to New York! To get back to the lab! I've never left for six days in a row, they can notice my absence!"

"That's bad…" Chip scratched his head with his pencil. "When the lab opens?"

"It never closes, actually, but the shift changes at seven AM, and I always—"

"Got it," Chip glanced at the dashboard. "It's a quarter to five. How long does it take you to get to the cage?"

"Ten minutes or so…"

"Suppose it's fifteen to be on the safe side, so you've got two hours. We'll make it this way. Gadget, Sparky, and Foxy fly the Wing to the gyrotank… Gadget, do you hear me?"

"I hear you, I hear it all…" the inventor murmured without lifting her head from the bottle cap serving as the rudder. Chip involuntarily felt himself a moral monster. His own body ached after yesterday's maneuvers, and he could only imagine what she felt being a much more tender, even if trained, creature. Unfortunately, there was no time for tenderness.

"Gadget, wake up!" he demanded shaking his life partner. "Sparky and Foxy need to get to the HQ urgently! They're in great hurry!"

"I'll be there… Just one more minute…"

"They don't have a minute, dear! They can't wait! Right, Sparky?" the chipmunk looked back and only now realized he was the last waking passenger of the Wing. The other team members froze in similar poses and breathed steadily, unable to withstand the need for sleep. Only Foxy, with her eyelashes twitching, kept up fighting, but the Eastern sky was turning grey already, and not only tiredness but also her instincts told her to abandon everything and hang upside down in some cool and dark place.

"Hey-ho, guys!" Chip shouted but it resulted in his friends tossing a little and murmuring something at best. As a result, he could do nothing but ask them to forgive him in his thoughts and turn the engines on.

"AH! OH! WHAT?! WHAT'UP?!" the team jumped up. If it weren't for the seatbelts, half of them would probably end overboard.

Chip toggled the same switch back. "So," he continued nonchalantly as soon as the blades stopped chirring and it was quiet again. "Gadget, take Foxglove and Sparky to the gyrotank, then, along with the flash drives, to the HQ, then return here. Got it?"

"Got it, Chip," the mouse answered sullenly. "But never do that again! You can't imagine how scared I was!"

"Don't know about Chipper, but I can imagine it well!" Monterey agreed with her. "The spontaneous start of engines can result in huge troubles! Remember that one time on the Screaming Eagle—"

"It's engines started by themselves, you thought it went crazy and shot it!" Dale finished. Actually, he wanted to say something very caustic about Chip's rude awakening them all, but he got lost among a rich variety of options and in the end it was Monterey Jack who became his target. This particular accidental phrase largely determined the further events, for Gadget with her passion about technology didn't like the joke and became truly angry.

"WHA-A-AT?!" she asked directing her righteously furious glare at Dale. "How could you say that! What's wrong with all of you?! One offers to burn the gyrotank, the other — to shoot the plane… How could you think that way?! Now I know where all those bomber dismemberers come from! From the likes of you!"

"Oh boy, Gadget…" Dale was so frightened he was ready to cry. "I… I didn't want to… It was only a joke… I… I didn't mean it! I… Guys, I was just joking! Honest! Tell her! Chip, tell her, too!"

But Chip didn't react to his friend's calling, deeply absorbed in contemplating one very unexpected thought. Unexpected not because of it being sudden, since it had been developing for two days now, but because of its meaning and the scale of the events that followed out of it. That was the reason why this thought remained undeveloped for so long, but his wife's words rotated his brain like a kaleidoscope windlass, and he finally realized the story of attack on Blather was painstakingly familiar to him. Something similar happened already, but in a different time and in an absolutely different place…

"Gadget, do you remember where it was?"

"It? It was in the Blather's house, in the closet! I remember it clearly! You wanted to leave it there, and I—"

"No, I mean the bombers."

"The bombers?" Gadget was too strung-up to understand the point of question. "Golly, it was horrible! They were the works of art! So beautiful, so graceful, so powerful! They… They barely even flew! And those people… with saws… with circular saws… Like some barbarians…"

"Gadget, please, stop it!" Although Chip used the magic word, his request was far from polite. And it wasn't a request at all, for that matter. "I know and remember everything! Except that country's name! Maybe you remember it? I think the first letter was 'Y'…"

"Yrbagan!" Dale exclaimed.

"Where's that?" Monterey was startled. "I don't remember that country on my globe…"

"I made it up just now!" the red-nosed chipmunk grinned. "But I could guess it, right?"

Chip climbed on his seat with his knees to have a better position for bonking the joker, but Gadget finally realized what was needed of her and answered. "If it started with 'Y', then it would be 'Ykraine'. Although I was sure for some reason it started with 'U', but—"

"Sure! Right!" Chip exclaimed. "Ukraine! That's where it happened!"

"What's that? What are you talking about? What happened?" the other Rangers spoke at once forgetting about sleep out of curiosity.

"The scandal with the death of the journalist! All newspapers wrote about it, all TV channels!"

"Yeah, I remember something like that," Monterey said. "Channel Six commented much on it… You think there's a connection?"

"It's just a hypothesis that needs verifying," the black-nosed chipmunk said cautiously. He didn't want to give his friends false hopes, knowing his supposition was too brave to be true. ON the other hand, he used to trust his intuition honed by classics of detective genre, and it was telling, or rather, shouting him that there was something about it. "Gadget, turn it on! We're going to the HQ!"

"What about Branson?" Tammy asked. "Shouldn't we leave someone here to watch him?"

_She's right,_ Chip thought wondering how he could overlook it. _My brains are melting from fatigue. I need to sleep for an hour, or better even two. But I can't sleep! I can't. Can't… _

"Chip?" the squirrel called him, tired of waiting for his answer.

"Yes, I'm okay… Let's do it this way. Gadget, take me, Foxy and Sparky to the HQ, then return here and guard Branson along with the others. When we are finished, I'll call you and you come back for us. Here's the plan. Complaints, ideas?"

"_A little sleep would do,"_ Zipper squeaked barely audibly.

"Gadget, take some coffee with you on the way back. Any other questions?"

"Take me with you," Dale asked. "It's been so long since I sat at the computer…"

"We've got only two of those and both will be occupied," Chip had to upset him.

"Really? That's bad… And who'll be at the second?"

"Me. I'll try to dig up everything I can on that Ukraine situation."

"Oh…" Dale wiped his face with his paw drawing his lower eyelids down. "That's a shame… Although what's there to dig up? Open Wikipedia and here you go—"

"No Wikipedia!" Foxglove protested heatedly. "It's evil! Anybody writes there anything for I don't know whom! Remember what you read there on Intel 960? And what was the result, huh?"

"Oh, come on, it was just a bad luck," Dale waved off clumsily. "Don't listen to her, Chip, or you'll spend a whole week there!"

"Better spend a week then—"

"Enough!" Chip clapped his paws loudly calling for silence. "We can argue till morning this way! Dale, Monty, Zipper, and Tammy, you remain here! Get out quickly!"

"Chipper, wait! Let me fly with you!" Tammy offered. "I have stimulating pills in my medkit, we could use them!"

"Right, Tammy! Good thinking!" Chip thanked her. "Second good idea in ten minutes! You should learn from her, Dale!"

"Stop it!" the offended chipmunk bristled sleepily. "If it hadn't been for me, Blather would have drowned and we would have known nothing!"

"First, he saved by Fishburn, not you, and second, you just got lucky!"

"Chance favors the prepared mind!" Dale countered proudly with a quote from 'Under Siege 2', which only served to irritate Chip even further.

"Were you mind prepared for anything more complex than cheap action movies, you would have followed Blather! Or at least take a photo of those FBI agents!"

Dale, already prepared to answer him, suddenly grew pale, exhaled all the gathered air through his nostrils and raised his hands to his collar, but instead of his bow-tie's usual silkiness his fingers hit coarse wool of his improvised tee.

"Lost something?" Chip inquired acidly watching his friend perplexedly slapping his neck, chest and back of his head.

"Seems so…" Dale answered dismally. "My spy tie with flashbulb… I remember, it was…" Dale feverishly searched around his seat and then froze, crushed by a realization. "Oh boy, it… It must have drowned in the river… OH BOY! My sweater! I left it in that hospital! Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy…"

"You bring only losses!" Chip commented his lamentations angrily. "Drowned the tie, lost the sweater… Alright, we'll bring another one for you. If we don't forget about it, of course."

"I won't!" Gadget said resolutely and immediately rolled into a ball. "Well, that is, I mean, we won't forget, but since 'I' is a part of 'we', if you think about it…"

"We have no time to think about it," Chip reminded her, the others and himself. "Okay, guys, see you soon! Be all eyes! Sleeping is forbidden!"

"We kno-o-ow that…" Monterey Jack yawned as he carefully lowered Zippered on the ground. The heroic fly had flown almost half a hundred miles during the previous day and was no sleeping so soundly he just barely moved his wings when the plane started and took off nearby.

Barely locating the gyrotank under one of the park benches, the five Rangers carried the precious flash drives to the HQ. Taking stimulants, coffee, and sweater for Dale, Gadget and Tammy left the Rangercycle behind and flew back to Brooklyn, while Chip, Sparky and Foxglove went to the different rooms and went to work. Chip accessed the Internet from the main PC installed in a closet on the treehole's top tier and proudly called 'Computational Center', while the rat and the bat descended into the 'magic tent' where Foxglove's personal computer was standing. That is, only its monitor was standing there while its hardware was carefully hanged about the walls because of lack of space and need to constantly switch its components back and forth. Combined with crystal balls, amulets and other esoteric equipment, it created inimitable environment of triumph of both ancient occult magic and the most advanced technology.

"I don't remember ever being here…" Sparky muttered having fallen in love with all of this the moment he crossed the threshold. "Oh my, could I really forget such a thing…?"

"No," Foxglove assured him. "You've never been here before, so welcome!"

She didn't need to repeat twice, nor to ask the scientist to feel himself at home.

"Wow!" Sparky's eyes glared up crazy like after a whistle. "It's the processor, yes? So big…"

"Processor isn't big; its cooling system is. I overclocked it somewhat, an extra gigahertz will always come handy, you know…"

"And it's a memory? Why only two planks?"

"Because it's GPU. The motherboard is on the ceiling, it didn't fit otherwise… WHERE"RE ARE YOU REACHING AT?!"

"There," Sparky said honestly pointing at some wide socket right above his head. "May I?"

"Of course, not! You'll burn it!"

"Me? Burn it?" Sparky wondered but a spark running between his fingers answered all the questions. "Yeah, I will…"

"Exactly!" Foxglove quickly pushed him out of the danger zone to the séance table with no electronics within a whole foot around it. "Sit here, it's safer that way… But still don't touch anything!"

"I got it, I'm no fool," the rat said sadly, his foggy eyes glued to contacts and condensers glistening invitingly in the light.

Foxglove began studying the drives, riding the custom-made trackball. It's massive ball reached her neck, and the buttons had to be pressed with legs, but still it was the best controller for chiropterous users they could have dreamt of. The keyboard was non-standard, too; it was laser-based, with keys projected directly on the floor, as if designed specifically for those who prefer working while hanging upside down off the ceiling. Foxglove quickly utilized them to create a backup system volume image in a special protected region of the hard drive, made sure autoplay was disabled in both group policies and registry, and connected the first 'torpedo' to one of USB extension cords gathered into a branchy tree sticking out of the floor. The system instantly recognized the device, but nothing happened aside from a familiar icon appearing in the system tray. No warnings of virus activity, no attempts to connect to some remote host, no CPU load spikes.

"So? How's it going?" Sparky inquired.

"No obvious signs of infection. Looks like Blather-junior really knows a thing or two about virus protection."

"Maybe he defeated the spies, too?" the rat offered.

"No," Foxglove smiled and licked her lips in sweet anticipation of 'bug' hunt. "They're here, they're just hiding, and hiding well. No problem, we'll stink them out now…"

But no check showed anything. The drive contained no files or folders hidden from the API, the OS registry didn't change, the size of system files stayed the same down to a byte. Repeated restarts showed no deviations like new processes, weird effects or lagging. Even the utilities launched from under system loaded from the external drive found nothing.

"Once again, nothing?" the scientist asked as Foxglove closed the final report of another antispy program with a disappointed sigh.

"Nothing…" the chiropterous geek confirmed sadly. "Absolutely nothing… Can my tools have become fully obsolete? I update them regularly, even modify some of them myself… Maybe I lost my knack? Tell me, Sparky! I am a loser, ain't I?"

"Loser? Of course, not!.. Wait, what are we talking about?"

"About viruses!" the bar screamed grabbing her teammate with her wings and rocking him like some Boston shaker. "Or rather, the lack of them! Why no program finds anything? Why, Sparky?! Why?! Why?!"

"Well…" Sparky wasn't a specialist in the field to answer at once so he started to call out variants as they came to his mind. "Maybe something's not working…"

"Everything's working, you saw it yourself!"

"Then something's not working right…"

"Everything always worked right!"

"Are you sure it isn't working right?"

"Yes! It would have shown something!"

"Does it always show something?"

"Yes, Sparky!" Foxglove was ready to start crying. "Yes! That's the point! It always did! Always!"

"Even when there's nothing?" the scientist allowed himself some doubts. He meant exactly what he said, but his phrase worked magic albeit not as fateful as the previous time.

"There's… nothing?" Foxglove's voice was hoarse after shouting and she needed a short time-out to catch a breath. "But… Or… Then… Well, no… On the other hand… You're genius!"

"Genius? Who's genius? Where's genius?" Sparky looked around searching for a wizard who told his friend some grand idea.

"Right in front of me!" the bat laughed and ran to the computer. As the bewildered scientist tried to surmise what she meant exactly, Foxglove scanned the drive and the system volume with a combined rootkit detector and alternate file streams scanner and triumphantly announced: "It's clean!"

"But of course!" Sparky set his labcoat straight. "I clean it every day! When I don't forget it, of course…"

"No, I mean the flash drive! It's clean, you understand? There was, there is, and there could be no viruses!"

The rat was skeptical. "You mean, at all?"

"No, actually, it could be full of viruses, but either Blather's son is serious about keeping his Daddy's PC clean or he scared him so he makes it on his own. I was talking about the viruses installed by the Black Table. That is, they are not viruses, because programs unable to replicate themselves are not viruses. It's just a kit of spy utilities installed directly on the target computer and acting within it only. They shouldn't actually replicate themselves for it makes their detection easier for self-replicating programs are unreliable and sometimes need terrific environment for successful infection. Of course, most of the PCs match these conditions but you never can be sure one of them won't have a well-tuned antivirus or a monitoring program. But manual installation on the victim's computer is another matter, for the felon turns off everything that can hamper the installation, and then carefully, often manually, removes all traces of his actions in the system. Such 'spies' won't be detected even by the most careful scan for they are built into the OS core level and work on its behalf with all its privileges. But, I repeat, physical access to the victim's computer is needed for that, and such spies can't replicate by themselves. They are unable to. Dixi."

"Wow…" Sparky muttered when Foxglove finished. "It's amazing, Foxy! You're a real master! Well, since there are no viruses to worry about, I think I'll go, I need to be in my lab by seven…"

"What lab?" Foxy asked. "We should study the materials!"

"Materials?" Heading to the door, the scientist turned around. "What materials… Wait, Foxy! We should study the Blather's materials!"

"Yeah, that's what I meant…"

"So why are we leaving?" Sparky sat down again and crossed his legs. "Let's study the materials!"

Any other bat would have screamed and attacked her tormentor with her fangs and claws. Fortunately for Sparky, Foxglove knew who she was dealing with, so she didn't even smile and just opened the file with the security camera footage.

"Nothing," Sparky said when the recording ended. "Nothing new, I mean."

"And nothing odd," Foxglove added. "Okay, let's check the text…"

The explanatory document added to the footage contained nothing strange like mentioning some unfamiliar clues or events. Although there were much less grammar errors and clunky phrases which the authors had no time to correct.

"Nothing here, too," the bat concluded. "Looks like we wrote everything they needed."

"They're not only terrorists but plagiarists, too!" Sparky's furiously clenched fists sparkled dangerously. "Can't come up with anything on their own! They stole texts from me, they stole explosive recipe from McVeigh… Ignorants! Boors!"

"Who're boors?" Chip asked entering the room.

"Black Table, who else!" Sparky was so angry he wasn't even surprised by Chip coming. His partner was more shrewd, though.

"Chip, you found something?"

Chip looked at Sparky instead of answering. "You finished? It's twenty to seven—"

"Twenty to seven?!" the rat shouted. "Oh my, I'm late! If I don't return in time, they'll uncover me and…"

"You will!" Chip interrupted him. "Foxy, got any results?"

"No viruses, no spy programs, no changes! We didn't look through the files gathered by Blather on his own, though…"

"Most of them, if not all, was used in the show, so it can wait. Saddle up, I'll call for the Wing."

"You found something," this time Foxglove wasn't asking but stating. Chip was talking in dry dull voice only when he was astonished and bewildered by something.

"We'll talk on the fly," Chip answered curtly and left the room. His friends could only shrug, turn the computer off and follow him.

* 29 *

They couldn't talk on the plane, too, though. Chip was silent all the way to Bio-Tech, plucking at paper sheets fastened together with a rubber band he held on his laps. His lips were moving slightly, indicating he was rehearsing his speech which apparently contained at least a couple of shocking revelations. Sparky, for instance, after a short but succinct conversation with Chip on the roof of his company's building stood still for almost a minute, and his friends flying towards the Secret Service office thought about turning back to bring him to his senses. At the end, their intervention wasn't needed, but the fact was suggestive enough…

"So, what's going on here?" Chip asked first off when the Wing landed on the same spot it had previously left.

"Nothing," Monterey Jack answered. "Sleeping."

"Sure?"

"Listen yourself," the Aussie handed the team leader a pair of earpieces. "But be warned, he's snorting so loud it can block unaccustomed ears!"

Chip grinned. "Wow, you've got a whole spy network here!"

"Why network? No network," Gadget objected. "I just connected Tammy's phonendoscope with several Human ones from the drugstore on the corner. It took some effort, but it works with no—"

"Thanks. I got it!" her husband averted the magic word. "Monty, wake everybody up! It's important!"

He didn't lie. It was really important. But first of all, it was scary. Even Dale, having watched all the horror movies made in the recent decades, almost got a heart attack as Chip described details of the murder of the Ukrainian journalist he unearthed from the world wide web. Celluloid nightmare is one thing, while the true story is a different matter altogether…

"Golly…" Gadget whispered, white as cloth.

"Unthinkable…" Tammy sobbed hiding her face behind her doubled-up legs.

"Oh my…" Foxglove said barely audibly. "Now I see why Sparky became stupored."

"And the President himself was behind it?" petrified Monterey asked. "That's a twist…"

"Monster. Just monster," Dale concluded categorically. Zipper, feeling the same, squeaked something similar.

"At least, the audio recordings presented by the agent of presidential security, allow for such a conclusion," Chip agreed composedly.

"You think the incident with Blather is related?" Monterey Jack asked.

The chipmunk nodded. "See for yourselves. There's info that Georgiy Gangidze was killed soon after he received materials concerning corruption in the Ukrainian president's inner circle. Blather was attacked almost immediately after his show aired uncovering the plot in the CIA. Parallel is obvious, isn't it?"

There were no objections. Chip, encouraged by it, continued. "Second, Gangidze's body was buried not far from the bustling highway and very shallow, and some experts thought it was done on purpose so that it would be found soon. Blather was dropped into the river from the bustling bridge with everybody watching, including security camera. Not the best way to hide a body, I'm telling you as a detective!"

Indeed, the similarity was so striking that even Dale commented nothing about his friend's craziness about mystery stories.

"Finally, in Ukraine the murder was committed by three former police officers acting on instructions of the Minister of the Interior himself. In our case the killers posed as Secret Service agents. This is the third similarity. And three similarities is not an accident and not a coincidence, it means something!"

"And what does it mean?" Dale asked nervously.

"This," Chip thrust his chest out and put his hands behind his back for more impact. "In Ukraine the Gangidze's death caused a serious political scandal and mass civil protests. The protesters even stormed the Presidential Administration in the capital city, but police dispersed them. Everything settled after that. But only for a time being. In three years, during the next presidential elections, when the government-favored candidate was declared winner, the opposition brought millions of people on the streets across the country, elicited the election results to be revamped and won in the end. And one of the points of the opposition's candidate's program was his promise to investigate the Gangidze murder and punish everyone involved. And many experts whose articles I've read agreed that it influenced the election results greatly."

Monterey's jaw dropped. "Crickey! And here the elections will be held in… uhm…"

"Exactly," Chip agreed. "But while I can't say I know the Black Table very well, I don't think they'll wait for so long. See, at the height of the Cassette Scandal, when, as I said, the capital of Ukraine was engulfed in protests, the majority of analysts agreed that the government regime was in his final days if not hours. But in the end the President toughed it out and stayed in power until the scheduled elections, although it seems to me it wasn't his achievement but rather his opponents' failure. But nobody makes such mistakes twice!"

"Wait a minute," Gadget muttered taking a tip of her collar she's been gnawing with her teeth out of her mouth. "So the Black Table is behind the events in Ukraine?"

"I don't know about Ukraine, but they definitely tried to kill Blather! Their man called Jefferson, their people were in Stan's house…"

"So now they…" Gadget cut short. "Golly, they…"

"They want to do the same here!" Foxglove came to her rescue.

"Basically, yes," Chip confirmed his teammate's guess. "I won't be surprised if they wanted to do it here from the very beginning, and the Ukrainian crisis was just a dress rehearsal. Like in Agatha Christie's 'Murder in Three Acts'."

Chip thought he would have time to catch his breath after such a weighty and stylish statement, so he almost missed Dale's dash past him at arm's length, only managing to grab his friend's tail in the very last moment. "Hey! Where're are you going!"

"There!" Dale, his breath heavy, waved his tuft towards the Wing. "I need! There! We all need there!"

Knowing well it would be unproductive to talk to Dale in his present state, Chip did to him what housewives do to dusty mats — shook him unceremoniously top down, sending a high wave along his body, and Dale, losing his ground, hit his chin hard against the surface of the roof.

"Now explain clearly where were you going!" Chip demanded letting his friend's sagging tail go.

"I… There…" the idea that once overwhelmed Dale grew dim in light of stars dancing in front of him. "To the plane!"

"You won't believe it, but I guessed it. Where did you want to fly?"

"To the cinema, of course! Oh, I meant, to the TV!"

"For what?"

"What do you mean for what?!" As the imaginary lights disappeared, previous thoughts, feelings and habits returned to Dale. "Have you fallen from the Moon?! We must tell everybody about it! Now!"

Chip rested his head on his paw and smiled gently. "And how are you going to do it?"

"Easy! I will—"

"They don't understand our language, mind you," Chip reminded him without stopping smiling.

"We'll write them! Send a letter!"

"Who will believe it?"

"They believed the last one, they'll believe this one, too!"

"Yeah, but last time we had the video recording, and now…" Chip made a helpless gesture. "Moreover, we don't know whom we can really trust."

"What?!" Gadget was really surprised. "How about Branson?"

"Right, luv!" Monterey Jack agreed with his old friend's daughter. "This guy is really smart, I'm telling you as a veteran pathfinder!"

"And he looks like Will Smith!" Dale didn't miss an opportunity to remind everyone. "And that's the mark of the true superagent!"

While Chip's logical apparatus was busy producing refutation of assertion of existence of correlation between law enforcement agent's professional qualities and looks of a Hollywood star, Foxglove expressed her support. "Chip's right! This Branson behaves very strangely! That FBI agent suspected him for a reason—"

"NCS agent!" Dale corrected her, trained by spy thrillers to at least discern law enforcement agencies. "And he's a real clown! But Branson hit him so hard that—"

"They suspect Branson to be a member of the Black Table?" Chip wondered. "Are there any reasons?"

"There are! They think he killed McMillan!"

There was a momentary silence as everybody digested what they heard.

"But he didn't do that!" Tammy exclaimed finally.

"He didn't," Chip confirmed. "Why they suspect him?"

"_Because he received our letter and arrested Snow and Ferrante!"_ Zipper flew forward. _"That's why Cunningham suspects him!"_

Dale's ears perked up. "Cunningham? I swear I heard this name before…"

"Sure, cutie! He's Davenport's boss!" Foxglove prompted him affectionately.

"Oh, they're a clique!" Dale rejoiced. "It's clear then! As they say… What they say?"

"The apricot doesn't fall far from the apple tree," Monterey Jack suggested.

"Apple," Gadget corrected him. "Apricots don't grow on apple trees."

"I don't know where grows what, but the apricots I ate I found under an apple tree. Or was it a pear tree? Aging is harsh mistress…"

Chip ignored Monty's lament. "Even if Branson really arrested Ferrante and Snow, it means nothing! On the contrary, it's a great way to avert suspicions and it's used in lots of novels—"

"I'm fed up with your novels!" Dale got indignant.

This argument didn't impress Chip, though, but Zipper had a more valid argument. "His friends died in that building!"

"He said so?" Chip inquired.

"Yes, when he looked through the victims list. He told Cunningham and Coolidge he'll inform the family!"

"I see…" Chip muttered.

"What? What? What else do you need?" Dale attacked him but the leader of the Rescue Rangers didn't flinch. For a dozen of seconds he was pursing his lips, moving his eyebrows, and tapping his claw against his nose. "Well," he announced finally, "since he arrested Ferrante and Snow, and he is not only professionally but also personally interested in solving this case, I think we can take a risk."

"Hooray!" Dale raised his fists. "Branson's our champion!"

"Only one little thing remains — find out how to do it," Chip resumed with sobering coolness. "We have no proofs, only naked theory he won't take seriously even if he doesn't consider our message an enemy decoy."

It was hard to object to it, but Dale managed to do it. "We'll sign it like the previous time!" he shouted and turned to Foxglove who thoughtfully wrapped her wings around her. "How you and Sparky signed? 'Wellwishers'? 'Rescuers'? 'Watchmen'? 'Strangers in the night'? How?"

"We didn't sign," the bat had to make him sad. "We just wrote it was an emergency information of the state importance. Nothing else."

"So we need to write the same!"

"But we have no proofs!" Chip repeated.

Dale didn't give up. "Then we'll write something else! We can sign as Red Badger of Courage! He'll surely believe Red Badger!"

Chip sniffed. "I don't think so. Branson doesn't look like idiot."

"Really? Well, yeah… Oh, come on!" realizing he was no match for Chip in logic, Dale retreated under the cover of habitual and comfortable buffoonery. "Come up with something useful instead of calling names…! I KNOW! I know how we can convince him!"

"And how's that?" Chip suppressed yawn, starting to feel tired by this argument.

"We should send the letter from the same address as the last time! And from the same computer! That will do!"

"But it's in Washington! In Walter Reed Hospital!" Foxglove reminded him.

"And the security had probably increased there since then," Chip added. "No, it's a dead end. We need something different, something more elegant…"

"Forgive me, Chip, but I think you overcomplicate it," Gadget said. "We can write nothing of our own and just send him copies of all these articles!"

"Or even better, links to them!" Foxglove joined in.

Tammy agreed, too. "He'll read them himself and come to the same conclusions as we did!"

"Too right, ladies! The simplest solutions are always the best!" Monterey Jack voiced his support, and Zipper flew up from his shoulder and moved in an elaborate pattern which meant 'Exactly!' in Flyish.

"See, Chip?" Dale victoriously looked at his old mate. "Everyone supports me! Let's go!"

But the leader of the Rescue Rangers didn't move. "I understand it's my turn now. I say nay! Sure you could think I'm paranoid," he meaningfully glanced at his wife who cast her eyes down, "but my experience tells me you can never be too careful! No matter what way of communication with Branson we'll choose, we must convince him on the first try! The very first try, is it clear?"

"No! Explain!" Usually Dale preferred to feign complete understanding, but this time he so strongly felt his friend was just putting on airs that he decided to play openly.

"Sure," Chip shrugged. "Branson is a cop. Yes, his agency and his position are named differently, but in essence, he's a cop! And like any cop, he's used to work with facts! And without solid proofs our version will remain just one of the theories he, like any detective, already has plenty of, I know by myself!"

Monterey was glad to hear that. "Well, if he's working through this version, we have nothing to worry about!"

Chip had to disappoint him. "Unfortunately, no. The problem is, he sees no connection between this case and the Black Table, and views these calls to Jefferson mainly as a simple threat from the CIA! Yes, he's an experienced agent, and he'll probably understand everything in the end, but he'll lose much time working out the wrong versions and we can't allow that because every single second counts! But if he sees our letter as Cunningham's provocation or even worse, the Black Table's decoy, he'll cross this version out prematurely and won't be able to solve this crime and thwart these terrorists' plans! It'll be a disaster!"

"My oh my…" Monterey Jack scratched his head. "It's bad not to write, but it's scary to write…"

"So what? We'll write nothing or what?" Dale asked in sad voice. He had already imagined being The Chipmunk Who Helped Will Smith (okay-okay, Almost Will Smith).

"We will," Chip reassured him. "Of course we will! We just need to come up with some more clever, more elegant and more convincing way to do it! Better the one that will lead him in the right direction, show him the right way. But only show, for he'll need to make all the conclusions himself. Only then he'll believe it, for nothing convinces the Human better then the solution he found on his own!"

_Not only Human,_ Gadget thought. She said nothing, but her facial muscles reacted to this thought so vividly that her husband asked immediately. "Something's wrong, dear?"

"No-no," the mouse smiled quickly. "No problem! So what do we do?"

"Well, there are plenty of options…"

"Like?"

"Like finding several objects associated with Ukraine and plant them where he will surely find them."

Being a trickster, Dale liked this idea very much. "Wow! Great! I love planting nasty things! What will we start with? Let's scratch 'Eniarku' on his car!"

"What?" Gadget asked.

"'Ukraine' backwards," her husband explained.

"Right!" Dale was disappointed that Chip guessed it so easily but didn't show it. "Branson will read it and understand everything!"

"Rather, he'll understand that some half-wits messed with his car!" Monterey Jack observed.

"Then offer your own idea if you're so clever!" Dale was insulted. But then another thought occurred to him, and he didn't let the Aussie to open his mouth. "Gotcha! We'll send him clues, like in 'Da Vinci Code'! We'll start with painting his table black! He'll get it immediately!"

"And if his table is black already, then what?" Chip inquired with a jest.

"Then his fridge!" Dale went on, unabashed.

"Stop it, Dale! It's not even funny!"

"Funny?!" Dale took offence. "Okay, here's another way, the most serious one! We'll plant clues for him! But in rhymes! With hidden reason! We'll take some Ukrainian poet, pluck citations from his works and—"

"And Branson won't understand anything because he doesn't know Ukrainian," Chip finished. "Just as we, mind you. I mean, the written Ukrainian."

It was an important clarification, for the Rescue Rangers and all other animals understood all spoken Human languages perfectly, especially if they saw the speaker. It was possible because Humans use not only language to talk to each other, but also intonations, mimic, gestures, and other non-verbal forms of information transmission which they usually aren't even aware of but still detect them and interpret subconsciously. The link between modern Humans and Nature grew so weak they were no longer able to understand each other directly, but the animals were still capable of it. But it was true for the spoken language only, since alphabet and writing were the products of cultured and civilized mind and couldn't be grasped with primal senses.

"That's alright!" Dale dismissed his concerns. "He'll learn it! I believe in him! And their Secret Service surely has equipment to record languages right into brains! I saw such thing in 'Bugs'! You put on headphones, and in just five seconds—"

"WHAT?!" Chip yelled.

"Okay, five minutes! But no more!"

"No!" Chip's eyes shone with that rare kind of feverish glitter that Archimedes probably had when he jumped from the bath filled with water. "Record straight into brain! You're genius!"

"No, you!" Dale answered instinctively but Chip didn't hear it as he focused his attention on Foxglove. "Foxy, can you do it?"

The bat was confused. "Do what? Teach Branson Ukrainian? I don't know it myself…"

"No, it's not about language! Can you instill him an idea about connection between Blather and Gangidze?"

"Instill? You mean I should hypnotize him?"

"Exactly! You did it with Gadget!"

"Yeah, but I didn't instilled her anything…"

"You instilled Sparky!" Tammy responded. "You made him stop reacting to whistles!"

"True," Foxglove agreed. "But remember how much time and how many sessions I needed to do that! It won't work with Branson!"

"Of course it will!" Dale objected with a hot face. "You can do anything! You did much more than that...! Uhm, I mean…"

"There's nothing impossible for you!" Gadget finished instead of suddenly silent chipmunk.

"Exactly!" Chip joined his friends. "You are our resident magician! No kidding!"

Foxglove, pinker than usual, fluttered her eyelashes. "Thanks, but… But I don't know… To affect Branson, he must be put into hypnotic trance where he'll be susceptible to instillation, but he's deeply asleep now…"

"No!" Tammy objected. "One hundred to one he's in a phase of a so called rapid eye movement sleep when the brain activity heightens!"

Everybody looked at her in surprise. "Are you sure?" Chip asked with disbelief. "Why do you think so?"

Tammy rarely was the center of attention so she felt a little nervous, but the accumulated knowledge helped her to regain confidence and strength. She put her hands behind her back and proceeded with her answer, looking in the sky from time to time like a straight-A pupil who learned the lesson by rote, slowly and thoroughly. "The rapid eye movement sleep occurs several times during the night. Although sleep cycles are individual and vary every time, some features persist. For instance, right before awakening non-REM sleep phases, during which the resources of organism replenish, cease, and the sleeper is either awake or is in REM sleep phase, or shallow sleep phase. Branson asked to be woken up in four hours, and his organism, familiar with such a schedule, attuned exactly for this duration. So the eight-hour cycle shrank exactly in two. But not by lowering the quantity of stages needed for refreshment, but by increasing their frequency. As a result, the last hour of Branson's sleep consists fully of interchanging REM and shallow sleep phases, which, as was discovered long ago, are perfect for subconscious learning. I'm finished!"

The last phrase was needed to return her dozed off friends who couldn't resist the vivid descriptions of phases of long-awaited sleep.

"Thanks for the exhaustive lecture, Tammy!" Chip thanked the squirrel being the first to open his eyes. "So now is the perfect time! Foxy, when you'll be ready?"

"I have no idea," the chiropteran representative admitted. "I still don't know how to make it happen and—"

"Alright, let's go another way around. How long should the hypnosis last?"

"With Sparky I needed forty to forty-five minutes—"

Chip checked his watch and clicked his tongue. "We don't have that much time. Half an hour?"

"I don't know, but in theory it could be enough—"

"Great! It's seven-oh-four AM now. Branson went to sleep at half past four, so they'll wake him up at eight-thirty. You have fifty-six minutes to prepare everything! Will you make it?"

Foxglove gulped nervously. "Well, I—"

"Good to hear that!" Chip clasped her thin shoulder firmly but carefully. "I always believed in you! Alright, guys, no sleep! Everybody's help is needed! Rescue Rangers, away!"

"A-wa-a-ay…" the others yawned moving towards the Wing at a sleepy jog.

* 30 *

At first approximation Foxglove's task seemed impossible, but Dale's remark turned out to contain not only a broad hint at hypnotizing Branson but also an advice on how to do it. In her wanderings about the web the bat often came upon sites where anonymous well-wishers provided free access to the images of licensed disks with music, films, software and everything else. Among those were the courses of speed language learning while sleeping, and sometimes Foxglove had an impression the internet was filled with them to its brims. But now all search engines seemed to conspire against her and provided only links to the sites of expensive online shops, and Foxglove cursed her habit to clear her browser's history. Fortunately, she wasn't the only one to visit those sites, and popular bookmark sharing services had directories with rich set of non-indexed links. One of those lead the bat to the full set of disks to learn German, and the uploader claimed to have preserved all the information from the original disks, including mnemonic signals. The rest was pure technicality.

While Foxglove downloaded images, clawed hidden tracks out and converted them into more digestible format, almost burning the CPU and the graphic card down, her friends used the enforced pause to refill the balance of their cell phones. Having no bank accounts or plastic cards, the Rescue Rangers paid with cash in street terminals. Previously acquiring Human money demanded much effort and luck, but when Foxglove joined the team it became significantly easier. Her sonar allowed her to find coins even in the thickest of grass, and when the team needed banknotes, she hid by an ATM and when it was about to give a client their money, flew from her cover with loud scream and bulging eyes, tore a note from the slit and disappeared. She never took more than one note at a time, and even if the victim had the nerves to count the cash on the spot, they usually attributed the shortage to their own forgetfulness or the ATM malfunction, but never the actions of an unknown representative of the animal kingdom. This simple, illicit, but very effective method allowed Foxglove to obtain up to one hundred and fifty dollars during a night, and soon the Rangers could allow themselves to have a thousand dollars of 'emergency store' at the HQ, and some of those were used now to pay for the communication services.

"Everybody ready?" Chip asked for the third time this morning.

"Yeah…" the unsteady response came.

"Please, people, concentrate and let's finally make it happen!" the chipmunk had all the reasons to address his friends this way, for the dawn was breaking already, and the vicinity of the terminal they chose was about to become too crowded any minute now. But Chip didn't back off, deciding that saving precious time outweighs the risk of being detected, not to mention that by this time the routine had been worked out to the tiniest details, and they needed to pay for three phone numbers instead of four, for the SIM-card of the gyrotank's phone didn't survive yesterday's adventures. Unfortunately, his calculations smashed against reefs of brutal reality, or rather, his friends' deathly exhaustion. Previously they had signaled their readiness, too, but the first attempt was ruined by Monterey Jack falling asleep, and the second time they found out the note under the Wing was folded not lengthwise but broadwise.

"Light!" Chip shouted, addressing unseen Monterey. This time the Aussie wasn't asleep, and the street light illuminating the terminal went out, creating a ten feet wide circle of comfortable twilight.

"Camera!" At this signal Tammy, spread-eagled on the terminal's cover, put a piece of cardboard in front of a small round window above the screen, fully obstructing the view of the camera hidden behind it.

"Action!" Now Gadget sitting at the Wing's rudder turned on the engines and lifted the plane as high as the upper edge of the touchscreen. Zipper was already buzzing about it, hitting virtual buttons with a rubber thimble, heavy enough for the system to consider it a human finger.

"Profit!" The final command was directed at Dale standing beside Chip on the telescopic claw clutching the banknote to be fed to the terminal. With the note positioned right in front of the receiver, the chipmunks grabbed the telescopic shaft with one hand and used their other ones to move each of the 'jaws' apart so that the note would enter the slit without falling to the ground.

"Gotcha!" Chip couldn't contain his happiness when the note under them moved inside the terminal with a rustling sound.

"Hooray…" Dale yawned equally happily. "We can finally sleep now…"

"Not yet!" His black-nosed partner cut him short. "We've got two more of those waiting for us down there!"

Dale responded with a long and sad snort. Despite this, the other notes were loaded quickly and efficiently, and the Rangers, removing all the traces of their activity, returned home where Foxglove was impatiently waiting for them. Her wings wrapped around her, she paced in eights in front of the hangar, looking like a hare from the batteries commercial as compared with her friends.

"At last! What took you so long?! Anything happened?! Dale, cutie, are you alright?! Sat something!"

"Please, Foxy, not so loud," Chip asked, suppressing his yawn. "Let him sleep while he can. You did everything?"

"Of course!" the bat switched into whisper and waved her wing at the MP3-player lying in front of the hangar with headphones tangled around it. "I did everything you asked. The voice is too unnatural, though, but everything is heard!"

"How long is the recording?"

"Twenty eight minutes sixteen seconds."

Chip checked his watch. "Will do! Monty, Zipper, help Foxy with the player. Gadget, Tammy, get out."

"Where? Why?" the girls asked sleepily, nudging even deeper in their seats.

"You'll stay at the HQ. We'll manage. No objections, you need to rest!"

The mouse and the squirrel had no objections whatsoever. They even forgot to say goodbye and daddled off to their rooms, shambling happily. Monterey and Zipper saw them off with envious glances from under swollen eyelids and tried to concentrate on loading the precious player onto the plane.

"No worries, guys!" Chip encouraged them. "One more leap! Foxy, catch…! Monty, let go…! Perfect! Fasten it with everything there is and off we go! Faster, faster!"

He nudged his friends not on whim but on need. They had less than fifteen minutes in reserve, four of which were spent to fly to Brooklyn, and another ten to get to the room where Branson was sleeping. The closed shutters let almost no light inside, and if it weren't for Foxglove acting as their guide, they would surely make a lot of noise.

"He's sleeping nicely," the bat whispered when the team approached the sofa.

"Yeah! So nice that my ears are blocked!" Monterey agreed gloomily.

"Fortunately, he's lying on his back, not on his side! Did you untie the cord, cutie?"

"Not yet…" Dale whispered forcedly. In his fight with the headphones he habitually took the path of least resistance, that is, pulled while he could, and in the end he both tied them in a knot and got entangled himself.

"Chip, maybe you could…" Foxglove suggested.

"I'm on it!" Chip decisively stepped up to his friend and started groping him methodically.

"WHA-HA-HA!" Dale's entire body jerked convulsively.

"Hush!" Chip raised his voice at him. "Stop twisting! Stand still!"

"Ha-ha-ha… I can't… He-he-he… It tickles! Ho-ho-ho… Hey, what's the big idea?!"

"I'm splitting the task into subtasks," Chip answered as he found the coupling. Disconnecting it, he freed Dale from the headphones first, then from the extender cord, then connected them again and handed over to Foxglove.

"Thanks, Chip! Zipper, I need your help!"

The ordinary fly would be crushed by the headphone, but Zipper routinely pressed a two-cherry barbell and he easily carried the headpiece to the special agent's left ear. Foxy worked with the right ear, and the player stayed on the floor since the extended cord reached the floor easily. The next step was the most difficult and important, but exhausted Branson's sleep was deep, reacting at the touch of rubber-coated membranes with slight stirring and a couple of deeper and louder sniffs.

"Foxy, how are you doing up there?" Chip called from below.

"Everything's set!" the bat responded. "Play it!"

"Play what?" Dale asked turning the player on.

"There's only one file, you can't miss it."

"One file?!" Dale was so scared he shouted in full voice, but Branson didn't wake up. "There was an entire collection of my—"

"I'm sorry, cutie!" Foxglove flew down and embraced him heartily. "I had to delete everything for the recording to fit!"

"But there were—"

"I know, but mnemonic signals occupy much space, and I had to use lossless encoding for voice instructions in order not to miss a sound! But don't worry, I downloaded everything to my disk, so everything's preserved!"

"Really?" Dale calmed down visibly. "Okay then… What now?"

"Now we'll shove the player under the sofa to hide it and remove the memory card from there!" Foxglove pointed at the low drawer by the footrest where Branson's smartphone was charging up. "There should be a recording of his conversation with Blather."

"Blather?!" now it was Chip who couldn't keep his voice low. "Why didn't you say it earlier?! It's a… Quick! We need to get it to the HQ immediately! Monty, stop yawning! Come on!"

"And you said the last leap…" the strongmouse muttered.

"Is the hardest one, yes," Chip finished. "Didn't you know it?"

Usually it was dangerous to speak to the Aussie with phrases like this, but he was so tired at the moment he didn't break out with a long story or a short anecdote, making do with limp and mild 'I knew it…'

While Chip and Foxglove flew to the HQ and back with the borrowed memory card in their clinging claws, their friends watched Branson to the extent of their exhausted abilities. Having read much, Dale offered Monterey Jack and Zipper to tie both agent and sofa to the floor to prevent him escaping and take a nap for half an hour or at least until their friend return. The offer was enticing, but the rope was gone with the Wing so they had to spend time playing mental Malayan tic-tac-toe with Monterey Jack winning all the games as the only one familiar with the rules.

Their half-victim, half-patient, hard to tell exactly, was spending his time in even more interesting way. His previous unintelligible dream was replaced by a sequence of shapeless enigmatic visions. Rising up from the darkness, they closed in slowly until they passed through him, and every contact had a very strange aftertaste, not in mouth but on subcortex. A crust of feelings, not visual but acoustic, seemed accumulating on it layer by layer. It was bleary hum at first, then wary whisper, and finally the new ghost arriving from nowhere spoke loudly and clearly: "Call".

The voice was ropy and somewhat lifeless. It was hard to expect something different from a text reading freeware, but it suited the ephemeral spirit from a dream perfectly.

"To Jefferson." It was another ghost speaking. It was still visible when the next one appeared uttering the next word: "About."

Now the words flowed constantly, almost without pauses.

"Blather's."

"Program."

"Was."

"From."

"Black."

"Table."

The talking shadows didn't pass through the agent now but crowded in front of him forming a dense clot of gray fog. It was simply curling there for some time, then it grew darker suddenly and the ghosts spoke again: "Call to Jefferson was from Black Table."

"From Black Table."

"Black Table."

"Black…"

"Table," Trevor, that is, his sub consciousness, repeated obediently.

But the voices didn't stop. "It happened already. It happened. Everything happened. It was a rehearsal. Rehearsal."

"Rehearsal…?"

The voices grew firmer and more demanding. "Remember Ukraine! Remember 2001! Remember murder of Gangidze! Remember the scandal with the president! It happened before! And it's happening again! Again! Again!"

Trevor squeezed his eyes. His body's eyelids twitched.

"He's waking up!" Zipper squeaked noticing the movement. Dale and Monterey Jack jumped up, but it was false alarm. Branson was breathing quieter and faster than before, but was still asleep.

"How about switching that thing off?" Monterey Jack proposed, glancing warily at the pale light coming from beneath the sofa. "I don't like all these witcheries…"

"Foxy said the record can't be interrupted!" the chipmunk reminded him.

"Yeah, but what if it's painful for him?"

"No, Monty, it's not."

"How do you know that?"

"Who, me? Well, uhm… I just know it, that's all!"

"Oh yeah, I understand," the strongmouse smoothed his moustache with his pinky. "It's Foxy's work…"

"Right," Dale grumbled. Monterey found his tone strange, but thought it was just exhaustion.

Trevor was becoming tired with the cacophony inside his head, too. The ordinary speed-learning programs acted gently and imperceptibly, without causing any discomfort to their users. But they were designed for a series of regular sessions, and in this case the result was needed here and now, so Foxglove supplanted the existing mnemonic signals with all indoctrination methods she was familiar with at once. As a result, as we already know, the audiofile she compiled occupied the whole memory of the player, and Branson felt like a first-hand participant of a popular rally where everybody spoke at once, very loudly and with catchy mottos only.

"Oppositional journalist! Gruesome murder! Public uproar! Mass riots! It's a conspiracy! Journalist! Murder! Uproar! Riots! Conspiracy! Conspiracy! CONSPIRACY!"

Having shouted everything out, the chorus of soothsaying ghosts fell silent and faded into background. Branson's features smoothed, his breathing calmed down, he snuffled childishly and protruded his lower lip, and returned to the realm of ordinary dreams.

"He's sleeping like a baby…" an affectionate voice sounded by Dale's very ear.

"Yeah, looks like… FOXY?!"

"Sure, cutie! Who else?" the bat rubbed her nose against her lover's head. "How are you? Missed me?"

"No, me and Monty— I mean, sure I missed you! What took you so long?"

The bat couldn't help but chuckle. "Are you jealous? I'm glad to hear that but trust me, you've got nothing to worry about! The memory card turned out encrypted so we had to tinker with it for a while. But it contained so much that— But I'm sure Chip will explain it better than me."

"Yeah? And where's he?"

"I'm here, don't worry."

"I don't worry!"

"You do!"

"I don't!"

"You do!"

"I don't!"

"You do!"

"I… OUCH! Why did you do that?!"

"Just wanted to," Foxglove fluttered her eyebrows innocently, having reminded her passionate friend about her presence by tenderly biting his ear. "Will you help me with the memory card? Hold on then!" Without waiting for his answer, she shoved the card into Dale's hands, grabbed him by his shoulders and carried towards the drawer, leaving Chip, Monterey and Zipper to take care of the player.

With the room restored to the initial state, the Rangers returned to the roof where their leader spoke again. "Well, friends, thank you for your endurance! I don't remember us ever working on such a tight schedule! So it's even better to know that we made it! But, as you probably understand, it's not a half but at most one hundredth of what we should accomplish! So fly to the HQ and have a good rest for, like, four hours…"

"WHAT?!" the others shuddered.

"Okay, six," Chip allowed himself to be persuaded. "But no longer! The enemy doesn't sleep, you know!"

"Why do we always fight enemies with insomnia?" Dale lamented having slept through a better half of his friend's speech.

Foxglove was more attentive, though. "You said 'fly'? I heard it right?"

"Yes, you did. You fly, and I'll stay here to watch Branson. We must make sure the hypnosis worked. And it's useful to know where he is, what he does, and whom he meets—"

"What?! You still su-u-uspect him?!" Dale yawned indignantly.

"At the moment I suspect everybody. Except the President. And you, of course."

"Thanks for mentioning it," Monterey thanked without opening his eyes.

"Let me stay," Foxglove offered.

"No," Chip refused. "You should have a sleep, and the day is like the night for you…"

"It's okay, I've almost switched to the regime of one chipmunk you know! And it's much easier for me to secretly watch people than for you."

"Then I should stay!" Zipper squeaked weakly standing up and smoothing his wings to show everyone he wasn't tired at all.

But this time Foxglove had objections, too. "No, flytie! All the birds come out hunting in the morning, and you are too exhausted to escape some hungry swallow!"

"She's right, buddy," Monterey Jack nodded, and Zipper had to admit his friends were right.

"In that case, take the phone," Chip said.

Foxglove chuckled wearily. "Well, I'm sure capable of carrying even a brick if needed, but I won't carry the cell phone around. If need be, I'll find some change and call you from a phone booth. We've got a phone directory with all the numbers, so even if I can't talk, you'll know where I am! So, what do you say?"

Even Chip had no objections to such arguments. "Alright, Foxglove, I'm convinced. In that case, you'll call the HQ at 12 AM sharp from a booth and wait near it for us to pick you up. Agreed?"

"Agreed, Chip! Good night, everyone! Let me see your face, cutie, I'm gonna give you a kiss…"


	8. Chapter 7 Cloak and Dagger

**Chapter 7**

**Cloak and Dagger**

* 31 *

_Long before the depicted events_

This wedding was the event of the year for the entire Middle East. In the throne room of Al-Auja Palace, situated exactly in the geometrical center of the capital of Akbarnistan, Fareed ibn Abdullah ibn Ismail J'quai, the dear stepson of the Supreme Ruler of Akbarnistan, General Haddahm bin Hassad al-Meisei, united in matrimony with Azyza bint Haddahm al-Meisei, his stepfather's daughter from his next, fourth wife. Everything was done to the highest standard, and their wedding photos were printed in society columns for a long time, making the readers and viewers applaud the ceremony splendor and the newlyweds' beauty.

They were a wonderful couple. Fareed, recently graduated from National Polytechnic University of Akbarnistan with flying colors and appointed by his stepfather the Minister of Industry on the very graduation day, was an exemplar of a young resolute and respectable statesman. Azyza was four years younger and embodied the ideal of the Eastern girl with willowy figure, dusky satiny skin and eyes dark as a sand in a desert at night. Together they symbolized the future of the East backed up by intellect, beauty, love, juvenile passion for new achievements and certainty that everything they wouldn't finish would be accomplished by their many children.

But fate had other plans.

The complications in childbirth causes Azyza to fall into a coma. The doctors could say nothing specific but urged to hope. And Fareed hoped. He hoped while sitting at her beloved wife's bedside, confident that right now, at this very second, she would open her eyes and smile at him, and everything would be as before. He hoped when on the next day in the morning he succumbed to his relatives' urging and went to sleep in the adjacent room. He slept badly, having nightmares for the first time in his life, but they were no match for what awaited him after waking up. He still shuddered when he remembered his feelings upon entering the ward and seeing the empty and carefully done bed, although there was nothing terrible about his feelings at all.

On the contrary, he never felt happier.

_She woke up! She recovered! We'll be together again!_ he thought while running along the hospital corridors and stairs towards the reception to find out where his wife was transferred. And then he met the doctor who operated Azyza, the celebrity of Middle Eastern medicine, Professor Hassan al-Rubai, who, instead of answering his questions, led him to his office. He spoke hastily, mostly using specific medical terms, but the terrible sense remained the same.

Azyza died.

Fareed's appointment as the minister was purely nominal for Haddahm was always the one to make decisions. But now his position came in very handy and the young man hurled himself into work which allowed him to distract a little from thoughts about his beloved. But his main support and delight was his wife's farewell gift, little Parahk who inherited her mother's eloquent eyes, jet-black hair and ringing entrancing voice, the cheerful sound of which filled both her grandfather's enormous palace and her father's scarred heart with light.

The years went by. Fareed grew from a decorative minister into a seasoned expert, and even Haddahm was not above listening to his advice, while Parahk grew up to become a young beauty expected to become the most prized fiancée of the Middle East. Everything seemed unchangeable and predetermined. Until during the ceremony of naming the largest Akbarnistanian hospital after Professor al-Rubai following his untimely death his oldest son, Omar ibn Hassan, approached Fareed and shook his hand.

"What's that?" J'quai asked, flinching as he felt a rigid paper forced into his palm.

"No idea. But dad told me to warn you that you should read it when no one's around," Omar answered honestly and in a low voice. "Very pleased to meet you, Minister!" He added quickly, ostensibly loudly and merrily.

"Me too…" the General's stepson responded. He was impatient to see what he was given but the words of the late Professor and his son's cautiousness impressed him so he hid the strange object into his pocket and took it out late at night under bedside lamp's dim light in order not to disturb his daughter sleeping by the opposite wall. It was a sealed envelope folded four times signed by al-Rubai and inscribed with words: 'To be given to Fareed J'quai personally after my death'.

Intrigued, the Minister opened the letter and started reading… and only Parahk's presence kept him from making some inhuman shriek.

When Fareed was only several months old, his father, Haddahm's close fellow party member, was killed by supporters of the Sheikh they had dethroned. On the very next day after the funeral al-Meisei married his mother and raised the boy as his own son and successor. Surrounded with luxury and care from the cradle, little Fareed knew about simple people lives only what he could see from palaces balconies, limousines windows and illuminators of General's planes and helicopters. He sincerely believed that people of Akbarnistan lives were difficult but happy, and his stepfather was the best head of state in the world, and neither attending the university nor his service as a minister couldn't shake this belief. His classmates understandably avoided discussing hard questions in the presence of the kid from the country's first family, and his work was mostly about reading dry technical reports and participating as a furniture bit in opening ceremonies of new industrial facilities. Al-Rubai's note smashed it all to bits. Now and forever General Haddahm was not a dear and beloved, albeit adoptive, father for Fareed but a bloody monster who murdered his own daughter in cold blood.

_You'll pay for this, father! I swear to Allah! _Fareed promised himself. Hatred engulfed him, but he forced himself to calm down, knowing he had to play it safe for even a tiny misstep would cost him and Parahk dearly.

Once again his ministerial post proved very useful, serving as a plausible excuse for his voyages around the globe and meetings with representatives of industrial, artistic and other clerisy of various countries. His stepfather was alarmed by his teeming activity and numerous contacts with 'alien enemies of Akbarnistanian people', but Fareed explained it with his wish to know their potential adversaries better and discover their weak spots. In truth, though, every such meeting and private talk he had, every article in prohibited in Akbarnistan Western newspapers he read, Fareed grew more and more determined to put an end to Haddahm's tyranny. He dreamt of the new free Akbarnistan, where there would be no place for human rights violations and pressures against dissent, and tenth of thousands of children no longer die every year due to medicine shortage caused by economic sanctions imposed by the West.

Almost half a year passed before his careful probing, translucid hints and meaningful phrases worked and CIA became interested in the young Akbarnistanian minister's atypical behavior. During a coffee break between sessions of a regular OPEC summit in Vienna Fareed was approached by a handsome grey-haired gentleman wearing a badge of Ecuador delegation member to the name of Diego Ernesto Alvarez, who asked him for a few minutes of his time to discuss some very delicate and important question for their respective countries. A year earlier the government of this Latin American country announced its intention to make the US dollar their national currency, so J'quai readily accepted his invitation and wasn't really surprised by everything that followed.

The Ecuadorian led him to a small corner room where two more much younger Latin Americans waited for them. They deftly searched Fareed, meticulously feeling every seam on his clothing, and left with his shoes, watch, belt and tie clasp. The Akbarnistanian understood the need for all of this and calmly sat down on the offered chair.

"Sorry for inconveniences," Alvarez apologized. "Many things happen in our field of work. Industrial espionage is a real scourge of free enterprise, isn't it?"

"Industrial?" Fareed asked with disappointment. "Just that?"

The Latin American was silent for a moment, looking closely at his face. "Not just that," he finally nodded. "Well, Mister J'quai, let's not waste time. The next session starts in fifteen and half minutes, so we have to make it in ten minutes…"

They made it. In six and a half months since his enlightenment Fareed had carefully rehearsed and polished his speech so he spoke quickly, condensely and on-topic.

He wants to do away with Haddahm.

He needs help.

Letting J'quai go, Alvarez called his young associates and gave them a miniature voice recorder. They knew what to do with it, and in twenty minutes the device was laying on a table in a small surveillance-proof room in the basement of the US embassy.

"So, what do you think?" the consul asked whose duties included not only issuing visas but also overseeing all intelligence operations in Austria.

"It doesn't look like a provocation," his deputy said.

"He's too well prepared for the conversation," Jacob Donovan objected. A balding brunet with pudgy cheeks and flabby chin that, contrary to stereotypes, radiated firmness and determination which would be strange for a cultural attaché but were more than suitable for the third man in the embassy's intelligence hierarchy. "I don't like that."

"So, what do we have here," the consul looked at the paper sheet in front of him with the conversation outline. "His wife died in childbirth. All this time he considered her death natural, but half a year ago he found out his stepfather, General al-Meisei, was involved. He sought revenge ever since. Allister, do you think we can believe it?"

"It doesn't contradict the information we possess," his deputy, Allister Simpson, reported. "Half a year ago Professor al-Rubai, Akbarnistan's leading surgeon who attended the members of the first family, including Azyza bint Haddahm al-Meisei, passed away. It's possible he revealed the true cause of her death on his deathbed. His relatives informed J'quai, and now we have an honorable avenger."

"And our man in the General's inner circle," the consul added and became lost in thought.

"Exactly," the cultural attaché took his glasses off and pointed at the ceiling with an earpiece. "Too inner, I'd even say. It's too good to be true."

"So you think it's a provocation?" the resident asked.

"Yes."

Allister didn't agree. "But why would Haddahm do something like that? The entire Middle East knows we're dreaming of eliminating him, and our and European media will still present everything as his ruse in order to discredit the Free World. He'll achieve nothing!"

"And what if he wants to uncover our Akbarnistanian agents this way? So he sends his beloved stepson to us thinking that we'll believe him, give him addresses of reliable people who will then be visited by their secret police! We've got too few people there to risk them for nothing!"

"We're not risking for nothing!" the consul's assistant got up from his chair. "Chances like this one happen once in a century! Just think about it: a pro-American ruler of Akbarnistan! Listen to these words! It's a rosy dream of ten previous Presidents! We pay our agents to take risks? Yes, we do! So let them take risks!"

"If this J'quai is indeed as pro-American as he seems, maybe it's reasonable to wait for Haddahm to hand power over to him?" the attaché suggested.

Allister chuckled. "Forget it, Jacob! Haddahm won't leave his post until his death, and he's not going to die soon. He's as sound as a roach, he swims Euphrates across on his birthdays, and he'll live for another decade if we don't hurry him up!"

The attaché shrugged. "It's okay, we can wait. We waited for the USSR to crumble for seventy years, and I don't think Haddahm will last more than thirty."

"That's possible," Allister agreed. "But Fareed won't wait that long. If he feels we're back-pedaling, he'll either act alone or even worse, he'll turn to someone else for help. To Ayran, for instance. Or Russia. We can't let it happen!"

"True," the consul nodded. "Next month Fareed will come to Ecuador, for a more pointed talk. As always, the Center will make a decision, but it depends on what we say. So, what's the verdict?"

"Not guilty," Simpson joked. "We should enlist him."

The consul looked at the attaché. "Mister Donovan?"

Donovan stopped chewing his glasses' earpiece, looked at his partners and the recorder on the table. "Enlistment," he said warily.

"Common consent, then," the consul summed it up. "Allister, prepare the dispatch…"

After travelling through Langley's winding corridors, the dispatch with a heap of attachments encrusted on it finally reached the table of the Agency's Director. He considered all pros and cons and why nots and added his own 'No objections' onto the title page densely covered with signatures and stamps. Two days later, when Minister J'quai came to Quito on an invitation of Senior Diego Alvarez, the official representative of Ecuador at OPEC, he was told by an US embassy employee that his proposal was accepted and received instructions for the next contact session.

Operation Dark Wing, one of the most ambitious, risky and promising in the history of the CIA, has started.

* 32 *

Despite Fareed's natural desire to deliver the killing blow himself, the operation supervisors decided that his coming to power should look like a lawful inheritance of the throne and not a palace coup, so he was given a support role only. The role of the angel of retribution was given to Abu Mohammed Selim Jarraqi, a major of the Akbarnistanian Air Force recruited by the CIA. He hated Haddahm wholeheartedly and was ready to give up his life to rid the world of this monster. And he was due to do exactly that, for complete data about Haddahm's security that J'quai provided indicated that any assassination attempt would be a suicide mission.

The dictator's death was scheduled for the night between April 29 and 30. He spent those days in his home city Meise honoring his ancestors buried there. It was the only predictable point of his schedule, and the General was perfectly aware of the associated vulnerability. Which wasn't strange considering his trademark paranoia which prevented him sleeping in the same place for two nights in a row. He owned about a hundred of luxurious palaces in all more or less significant towns of the country, and six of those were built in the vicinity of Meise. They were absolutely identical and it was impossible to predict where exactly the Dictator would stay since every time he personally determined it by throwing a dice.

It was impossible to bypass this seemingly ideal security without an agent among the dictator's inner circle, and that's where Fareed came in whose task was to arrange a reliable orientation cue for Jarraqi. The rest was up to the pilot who was on good enough terms with his commanders to arrange his turn to conduct a scheduled flight to coincide with the last night of April. Now nothing would prevent his MiG-23BN from being in the right place at the right time.

But while everything was arranged with him getting into a strike position, the strike itself was still a problem. Jarraqi's task would be not to attack enemy entrenchments but to patrol Turkish border so his fighter-bomber would be equipped by air-to-air missiles, a 23mm twin-barrel automatic cannon, and two 20-rounds containers with non-guided S-8KO rockets. No heavy bombs, in other words. Owing to their improved high-explosive fragmentation warheads S-8KO's were a perfect weapon against groups of NATO saboteurs or smugglers' caravans, but completely ineffective against palace walls capable of withstanding a direct hit of a howitzer shell. Thus Selim could and, subsequently, had to do was a suicidal ram on hypersonic speed when ejecting involved losing your head and limbs and thus was useless. He was skillful enough pilot to do that, and his fully fueled Flogger with additional 840-litres external tank, despite lacking concrete-penetrating capabilities required to completely destroy such a wall, would easily destroy anyone behind it by a combination of impact wave and fire. But there was another problem…

"…SA-3 Goa surface-to-air missiles," Fareed's contact person pointed at squares almost indistinguishable from the background and encircled with a marker to be on the safe side. "Armed with four V-601 missiles with high-explosive fragmentation warheads. Effective range is twenty two miles, intercept altitudes between three hundred and sixty thousand feet."

"How many meters is that?" the Akbarnistanian asked, not used to Imperial units, as he examined the photograph from space. They were talking inside a limo parked in the underground garage of Ramses Hilton hotel in Cairo. The Minister's bodyguards stationed outside were sure that their boss was secretly dealing with an owner of the local pipe plant concerning shipping large oil pipes to Akbarnistan in circumvention of embargo.

"Thirty five kilometers, one hundred meters, and eighteen kilometers respectively," the other man said. He could be taken for a captain of industry, indeed, if you didn't know about his service in Special Defences for CIA's NCS.

"And those are around every palace?"

"Yes."

"Amazing!" J'quai shook his head. "I never noticed anything like that…"

"We neither," the American admitted. "They are expertly camouflaged and are almost indistinguishable from sand. We managed to notice them only because our new satellites have ten times more powerful cameras."

"Can they be destroyed?"

"Yes. But only by full scale military action — aerial assault, paratroopers… It won't be quiet anyways. Even if we neutralize the guards around the launchers, it won't help, for the launch is made from the command post."

"And if we destroy the command post? Will it help?"

"It will. But it's located inside the palace."

"I see… You said the interception altitude of those missiles is from one hundred meters and higher?"

"Yes, you're right."

"So if Jarraqi flies, for instance, at fifty meters above the ground—"

"It won't do. He will be still detected by the radar. To prevent this he'll need to fly the last one hundred and sixty kilometers under twenty meters, and the landscape is hilly there. And there are buildings, too. We considered this option, but found it impossible."

"And what radar is there?"

"It's three radars, to be precise," the CIA agent spread photos of various mesh constructs on a folding table. "The one I mentioned is a plan position indicator radar, this one," he moved a photo closer to Fareed depicting a truck with a couple of tall thin planks protruding from its cargo area with two oval antennas mounted one above another, "is Flat Face B, an old reliable system. When a target is spotted it determines its coordinates by azimuth and identification range and transmits the data to the command post. The second element is Side Net, altitude measurer."

"So that's what it was…" J'quai said, looking at the antenna's narrow drawn-out sickle. "I saw that thing. From afar, of course, and I don't quite remember where…"

"Most probably, not far from this thing," the American took the third photo from the table. The depicted antenna itself looked like a cruising missile put on a four-wheeled base with thick black cables running in all directions from it. "Low Blow missile guidance station, the heart of the entire system. It can track targets by radio channel in automatic, semi-automatic, and manual modes, or manually by telescopic TV channel. Quite a beating, I must say."

"Yes, yes, I saw those," Fareed nodded. "They stand on platforms on the outer wall level, always on the opposite side from the main gates."

"Really?" the CIA agent returned to the palace photo. "But in that case we should have seen them a long time ago… Could you show them?"

"With pleasure," the Akbarnistanian pointed his pen at a dark square of a palisade set up on the upper terrace. "It's here, in the very center, right among the palm trees, and covered with net and leaves."

"Clever."

"And very practical. You can't see it from the road, only from the palace top floors or from the courtyard which is off-limits for strangers. But it's hard to see it even if you know it's there. I noticed it only because it's constantly rotating."

"Of course. These things rotate twenty-four-seven. And they are guarded twenty-four-seven, too."

"Yes, there are many soldiers around."

"Don't doubt it," the operative hemmed.

Fareed scratched his chin as he thoughtfully examined the photos of the antennas. "To disable the system, all three must be destroyed?" he asked.

"Ideally, yes. But Low Blow is basically enough. It guides the missiles to the target, they are almost useless without it."

"So we need to get rid of it! Detonate it, for instance…! No, that would alert my stepfather… Turn the power off!"

"Even if the antenna is connected to the palace grid, it surely has a backup power source."

"Where can it be?"

"Under those same palm trees, I guess. But if it stops, the guards will become alerted."

"Yes, you are right… Can we make the antenna work but, well, not work at the same time?"

"You mean, rotating in vain?"

"Yes. Like, without sending signals to the command post?"

The American fell silent for a minute. "That's an interesting idea, you know… " he said finally, his face brightened. "Some strange malfunction that can be found quickly but takes much time to fix… Time… Flat Face will detect Jarraqi one hundred and sixty kilometers away from the palace. Flogger's cruising speed is around Mach two, two and a half, so it will cross this distance in around four minutes…"

"And if Low Blow breaks down a minute before him entering the radar range, the station personnel will be occupied with solving the problem so they will notice him when it's too late to raise the alarm!" Fareed added.

"Too late to raise the alarm," the agent repeated. "Yes, it could work. I'll speak with our engineers; I'm sure they'll come up with something. But arranging such a malfunction requires access to the antenna, and even you don't have it, I presume."

"I don't. But I know a man who does."

The American smiled, showing his sound white teeth.

"It's a pleasure to do business with you, Mister J'quai!"

"Same here, Mister MacMillan!"

They shook hands and parted to never meet again.

* 33 *

A week later, in Doha, after the festivities on the occasion of fifty years of the ruling Emir of Qatar, Fareed discovered a black cylinder of unknown origin in his dress pants pocket. And another week later, on April 29, six absolutely identical motorcades left the Al-Mavsil palace complex' garage and headed towards Meise along different routes. Neither drivers of black armored limos, nor soldiers in escort vehicles knew whether they were carrying the General or his double. They were allowed to enter the garage only when Haddahm sat in the car of his choice. When countryside appeared behind the car's windows, the dictator rolled his trusted dice five times on a platter and picked up his satellite phone.

"Motorcade One to Palace Five."

"Acknowledged," the Motorcade One commander responded and repeated the instruction to his subordinates.

"Motorcade Two to Palace Four," the General ordered, having pressed the next button. Sitting opposite him, Fareed winced involuntarily. His stepfather's dice turned out unfavorable to him, so he would need to see to it himself.

"Acknowledged," the Motorcade Two commander confirmed. Like all his colleagues from other motorcades, he was confident they were carrying real Haddahm. In contrast to his colleagues, he was right.

Meanwhile the standard procedure continued. "Motorcade Three to Palace Two."

"Affirmative."

Having received the instructions, the motorcades drove from the highway onto one of the beltways around Meise. They were made unidirectional to avoid situations when two motorcades meet in a single point making them a very convenient and tempting target, and they had been closed for public transport since the previous day. To get to the Palace Four situated to the south from the city, the drivers of Motorcade Two approaching from the north-east had to circumvent almost half of the city, but since speed limit rules didn't apply to them, soon they passed through armored gates and whipped into an underground garage reliably covered by meters of granite and concrete.

"We're home!" Haddahm announced to his fellow travelers. In addition to Fareed and Parahk, the General's fifth wife and his personal bodyguard were in the car, and the latter instantly unlocked the door. The outer door handles were ornamental, and the doors couldn't be opened without the passengers' help. But as soon as the lock clicked, the driver, already standing by the door, swung it open and welcomed the ruling family onto a runner rug with guard soldiers from the palace garrison already stationed alongside it.

"Present arms!" the garrison commander ordered, and the soldiers seamlessly saluted their Commander-in-Chief. Haddahm saluted them back and went along the rug with his family to an elevator which took them to the fourth, residential floor of the palace. There were eight two-room suites, and Fareed chose for him and Parahk the one closest to the elevator and the farthest from his stepfather's private quarters at the opposite end of the corridor. He went there almost immediately, leaving Parahk to unpack their luggage.

"Father? May I have a few minutes of your time?"

"Of course!" Haddahm understood by his stepson's looks that he wanted to discuss something important. "Fatima, my precious—"

"I was just about to go to the pool," his wife smiled obediently.

"Good girl," the General complimented her. As soon as she closed the door behind her, he invited Fareed to his working cabinet. "I'm listening, my boy."

"Father," Fareed began warily. "Don't you think it could be dangerous here? We come here every year in the same time, so our enemies can prepare for it and—"

"Don't worry!" Haddahm lovingly patted his stepson's shoulder. "Security's tight here, you saw it yourself! And that's far from the entire garrison!"

"I understand but… Do you trust them all?"

The tyrant grinned. "Of course not! I trust nobody! That's why common soldiers serve for three months here, and officers for six months only!"

"And the garrison commander?"

Haddahm became alarmed. "What about the garrison commander?"

"Well, seven years ago, when we stayed here, he was the commander already. And three years ago. And he's still the commander…"

"You mean he could have conspired something this time, right?"

"No, but…" Fareed made a helpless gesture. "I don't know… If he had served you faithfully and loyally for so long, he probably isn't involved in anything. But, well, you know, a fresh eye catches more…"

"You want me to replace him? With whom?"

"Not just him," J'quai objected. "All of them."

"All the garrison commanders?" Haddahm asked and smoothed his moustache. "You know, actually I've been thinking about it, too, but there was always something more important… But who can I replace them now? I need trustworthy people, tested and knowing how everything works here…"

"You have such people, father."

"Do I? And who's that?"

"The same garrison commanders."

The dictator thought deeply. "I think I know what you mean, but still explain," he ordered.

Fareed knew his stepfather understood nothing and was just putting up a facade, but remained impassive about it. "We should simply swap the commanders between the garrisons. Send the one from Palace One to, say, Palace Five, and the one from Palace Five to, say, Palace Three and so on."

Haddahm grinned and embraced his stepson. "Great idea, Fareed! Just what I thought! You're thinking like a true al-Meisei! Which is not strange, given we are in the land of the ancestors where even air is saturated with their wisdom! Indeed, who knows best what a garrison commander can plot? Only another garrison commander! We'll arrange it immediately! Now where's my trusted dice…"

"Father, wait!" J'quai grabbed him by his arm. "Can you entrust a blind luck and dice with such an important question?"

"I entrust nobody else with those questions. And you know what — it never failed me."

"And me?" Fareed added some edge to his voice. "Have I ever failed you, father?"

It was the most delicate and dangerous part of the conversation. Nothing could alert the paranoiac more than request to believe. But Haddahm was so impressed with the idea his stepson offered he didn't even bother to suspect a foul play. "No, son, never. I'm listening."

"You can distribute five of the commanders with your dice. It would be even better this way. But for this Palace, you should assign Colonel Mahmud al-Khasib from the Palace Five. When we stayed there, he made an impression of a very skillful and experienced soldier. And he's also a family member, you know…"

For a few seconds which seemed to last forever for the young conspirator the silence was broken only by tapping of the dice his stepfather rolled between his fingers along the table.

"You're right, son," Haddahm finally said. "You should trust the family! These are hard times, and the relatives should stick together, be in step, so to say! I'll call Mahmud here immediately, he'll definitely bring a perfect order to this place! I'm proud of you, son! Go, take some rest, we'll leave for the cemetery soon."

"Thank you, father!" Fareed bowed ceremoniously and left, trying hard not to reveal his jubilation.

His stepfather acted fast, like he always did when his own life was involved, so in less than an hour Colonel Mahmud al-Khasib of the Special Republican Guard came to the Palace and assumed the command of its garrison.

"General, Minister," he snapped to attention and clicked his heels as he saluted them. "It's a great honor for me to serve under your command!"

"At ease, Colonel!" al-Meisei barked back and they embraced warmly. "Glad to see you, Mahmud! How's your life, family, service?"

"No complaints, General, thank you!" al-Khasib answered happily. He was way older than fifty, but even teenagers would envy his form and vigor. He put his palm to his visored cap again. "Permission to start performing duties?"

"Permission granted, Colonel!" Haddahm saluted him back.

"Uncle Mahmud, while you're not too busy, will you come see us? Parahk will be very happy. We're leaving soon…"

Being a disciplined soldier, Colonel looked at his superior first, and only upon receiving his silent approval he answered. "Sure, Fareed, with pleasure! I'll walk posts and come to you!"

"In this case I'll have time to make us some tea."

"That would be great!" Colonel laughed good-naturedly and left to inspect his new acres. As promised, J'quai brewed fresh tea and helped his daughter to prepare the room for the dear guest's visit.

Mahmud al-Khasib was Azyza's second uncle and would never miss an opportunity to see her daughter. Indeed, he came quickly and immediately opened his arms wide for his grand-niece running towards him. He picked her up like a feather, circled her several times in the air, then sat her down on his knees and started asking about her academic progress. Parahk didn't like to talk about it, but she rarely saw her uncle and wasn't used to lying to him. So she spilled it out too fast to become afraid, and when he chided her for lagging in Mathematics he did it so unexpectedly kindly for a man in uniform she didn't take umbrage but became even happier and relaxed.

"I love you, Uncle Mahmud!" she said as she rubbed her nose against his moustache.

"I love you too, Parahk!" the colonel tousled her hair gently. "Too bad your Mom isn't here. She would be proud of you."

"True," Fareed spoke up. He felt uneasy having to exploit Parahk's and Mahmud's feelings, but it was worth it. "Pari, how about you go to the pool and check on Grandma? Me and Uncle Mahmud need to talk."

"Oh, it's always the same…" the girl grimaced but obeyed. She kissed the colonel's cheek and left carrying her swimsuit and towel.

"She's a beauty!" Al-Khasib said when they were alone. "She's Azyza all over. Beautiful and not very good with Math."

"Sad but true," J'quai admitted. "Forgive me, if you can Uncle Mahmud."

"For what, Fareed?"

"For this," Fareed handed him al-Rubai's letter and went into another room. When he returned in half an hour, the colonel was sitting still in an armchair staring into the wall.

"Forgive me," Fareed asked again.

"Don't apologize, I don't take offence at truth," Mahmud was pale like a sindon but spoke firmly and immediately got to the point. "What's needed of me?"

"I'll explain now," J'quai motioned the colonel to follow him. They went to the bathroom and the minister opened all the valves.

"You're a smart guy, Fareed," the garrison commander praised his precautions.

"Such is life," Haddahm's stepson shrugged casually and picked a container from Doha disguised as a shaving foam canister from a shelf under the mirror. He unscrewed the lid and shook out an object resembling a large black screw-nut on his palm and handed it to al-Khasib. "Here. This must be attached to the data cable of the anti-aircraft missiles guiding station…"

"Why so complex?" the colonel asked when Fareed finished explaining his and MacMillan's plan. "I can enter his suite right now and shoot him like a rabid dog!"

"They won't let you in carrying a weapon."

"I'll kill him with my bare hands!"

"And you'll perish yourself."

"I don't fear death!"

"I know. But even the tiniest mishap or bad luck, and Haddahm will leave the Palace and all our efforts will be for nothing!"

"Your plane has much more vulnerabilities! It's too complicated!"

"Agreed. And that's precisely why it can work as opposed to a simple and straightforward attack to which his security and he himself are prepared the best, trust me."

In the end the colonel acceded. Having run through all the details and synchronized their watches, the conspirators parted and everything was quiet until General and his family left for the city. But as soon as the last motorcade car passed through the gate the palace was shaken by shouting and stomping.

"Muster! General muster! To the muster, everyone!" the garrison commander shouted with all his might. A dense network of speakers allowed his voice to penetrate all nooks and crannies of the complex forcing soldiers to run to the drill ground.

"Stay put! Dress! Attention!" Mahmud ordered. He came here faster than many of his subordinates and was very displeased. "What's this?! That's not good! I've been here for a whole minute and they are still crawling up! Yes, crawling! You can't call it running! My hundred-year-old grandgrandma ran faster! You've really fagged here, I see! You forgot you're protecting not your neighbor's cowhouse but the Commander-in-Chief himself, didn't you? Don't worry, I'll make you remember it soon enough! Everybody down and do one hundred press-ups! Go!"

The soldiers fell onto black-hot asphalt.

"Come on, come on! Faster! And no grimaces, you aren't made of sugar, are you?" the colonel shouted as he walked among the rows using his feet to help those who couldn't touch the ground with their chests on their own. "Horrible! Terrible! Alright, stop this mockery! You've grown too fat on your triple rations? No worries, we'll fix that…! Hey, what's that?!"

He stopped in front of one of the soldiers and stabbed his finger into a barely visible wrinkle on his tunic. "Private! Name!"

"Rasheed al-Katib!"

"Private al-Katib, why isn't your tunic ironed?!"

"Press-ups—"

"What?!" Mahmud stepped closer. "Repeat what you said!"

"My fault, Colonel!" Rasheed corrected himself.

"Can't hear you!"

"My fault, Colonel!"

"Louder!"

"MY FAULT, COLONEL!"

"Don't yell, I'm not deaf!" Mahmud shoved his fist into the private's abdomen. "You may show your belly to your mother, not to me! Hide it! You're in rank and file, not sunnying on a beach! Alright, soldiers, I see the discipline is below zero here! If it were up to me, I'd send you all marching into mines, but, as General Haddahm, a soft and economic man says, even a complete idiot deserves another chance! So here's my order: while General's absent you must tidy yourselves up, grease your weapons, do your beds, wash your floors, broom the grounds! Oh, and polish your shoes, for I've never seen such dirt in my entire life! You don't look like guardsmen, but like some savage tribesmen! I'll check everyone personally! Why are you still here? Dismissed!"

The soldiers scattered to carry out his orders, and the colonel walked posts for the second time today, this time flogging every soldier he met for his appearance, weapon state and cleanness of walls and floor. Having dealt with privates, he turned to duty officers manning the command post and air defense station, handing out reproofs and extra duties for the slightest deviations from the statute.

"What is this?!" he yelled with bulging eyes, shoving his finger with a few flecks of dust he found on a console under the operators' noses. "How can it be?! You're the final line of defense! You're our shield, our hope! And it's dirty like in a market ditch here! What can you see on such a soiled screen?! I'm afraid to ask what state your antennas are in?! When was the last time when you greased them, huh?! You don't remember?! Are they even working?!"

The confused operators babbled something incomprehensible as they pointed at indicators and dials on the console, but al-Khasib didn't back down until he personally inspected every single antenna. He even took the trouble to take off his coatee and crawl under the missile guidance station to make sure all the cables were attached according to the instructions. Admitting involuntarily that the equipment was in 'acceptable' condition he ordered to have the wheels of the base inflated, dressed back and left. Were the soldiers curious enough to check what their superior was doing under the antenna, they would definitely have found a screw-nut-shaped bulging on the data cable not mentioned in the technical specs. But they were too happy to get off cheaply so the device installed by Mahmud remained unnoticed.

There was a commotion on the cemetery to the north of Meise, too. As always, motorcades from all six palaces arrived there, and the countryside was crowded with police, military and plainclothes agents. The dictator and his family visited the graves of the city's founding fathers and the progenitors of the Meise family, tidied the monuments up and beautified the area. Haddahm always tried not to stay too long in one place, especially an open one, so after just two hours the First Family of Akbarnistan was ready to leave. Fareed and his daughter were about to get into their limo, one of the policemen in the cordon called them. "Sayyid J'quai, may speak with you?"

The nearest bodyguards synchronously shoved their hands under their jackets, but the curious Minister gestured to them to stop. "I'm listening," he said approaching the stranger.

The policeman bowed politely. "Sayyid J'quai, please forgive me for my boldness. My name is Mishal, Mishal al-Sulami. I am a husband of your stepfather's first wife, Layla bint Mansur al-Nadr, half-cousin."

"That's my father's first wife's name, indeed," Fareed acknowledged. "How can I help you? Tell me what you need, we'll do everything we can."

"I don't doubt it," Mishal bowed again. "On the other hand, my request may seem excessive and even indecent to you…"

"Please, speak up," the Minister urged him. He really wanted to know what this man was talking about.

"You see, I know you are a busy man, but maybe you would deign to devote a crumb of your precious time for me and my family? You know, my brother and both his sons, like most men of our village, work at the power station you built, and your speech on the opening ceremony impressed us so much— Of course," he added hastily, "we would be happy to see your father and all living al-Meiseis, Allah bless them, among our guests, too, but I won't even dare to ask of such an honor…"

Fareed studied the weathered face of the aged policeman intently. Basically, his request wasn't strange. Quite the contrary, it was fully in line with traditional Eastern hospitality. But J'quai couldn't forget who his father was and what day was today, so at first he thought it was a messenger from the CIA whose mission was to provide him and Parahk with an excuse not to return to the palace. But the more Mishal spoke, the more flattering his smile became, the Minister grew more and more convinced he really met an ordinary country policeman who dared to speak to his very distant and very high-ranking relative. And although Fareed still had some business to attend to in the palace, he knew he could never get a better opportunity.

"Wait a minute, please, I'll be right back," he asked politely and returned to the limo but didn't get inside, only leaned through the door.

"Who's that? What does he want?" Haddahm asked. Fareed was sure his stepfather heard everything, but kept his opinion to himself.

"He says his name is Mishal al-Sulami, and his wife is Aunt Layla's relative. He invites us to his village."

"All of us?"

"Actually, me and Parahk, but he would be immeasurably happy if you and Aunt Fatima come, too."

"He would be happy…" Haddahm said through his teeth. "Kick him away and let's go!"

"It's a bad idea, Father."

General looked at his stepson with genuine surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I should accept his invitation."

"Son, are you crazy? Surely it's a trap!"

"I'll bring Abdul and Jafar with me."

"That's not enough!"

"Alright, I'll take a company of guardsmen along."

"Why do you need to go with him?"

"We don't get invited every day."

"So what?"

"It's a good opportunity to talk to people, find out about their problems—"

The General snorted. "Problems! They all have one problem: snatch more, give less!"

"Even so," Fareed agreed for the show, "there's still such a thing as PR. All European politicians—"

"I don't give a darn about European politicians! I've long noticed you converse too much with them! And here we go: you defy your father, you talk nonsense—"

"Father, please—"

"Please what?"

"Let me go. I feel it will do us good. Please, believe me!"

Haddahm's eyes drilled his stepson for a moment and Fareed tensed, afraid to have overdone it. But then General laughed suddenly and patted his cheek. "Alright, son! You've given me one great idea today already, and I see you know what you're doing now, too! I'm not used to trusting people, but you're different, you know how to see eye to eye with them. Go. Maybe you'll find out something of value, who knows. But be careful! You are my pride and my hope! Remember it!"

"I remember, Father!"

"And don't stay too long there!"

"Well, I'll see how it goes," Fareed let some irony into his voice. "You know these commoners, they won't let you go until you meet their entire village."

"I hope you didn't forget that the palace gates are locked at midnight?"

"I remember it. If we are late, we can stay in a hotel… You know, that's exactly what we'll do!"

"You aren't going to come back to the palace?"

"I don't think it's a good idea. What if we are followed by enemies? They'll find out where we are staying."

Haddahm's smile grew three times wider. "You're right again, son! You calculate everything! Like father, like son!"

"I do my best, Father."

"Alright, go, that bootlicker is getting anxious! I wish you to have a pleasant and useful time!"

"Thank you! See you tomorrow!" Fareed closed the door, massaged his numb back and went to the visibly shaking policeman with Parahk and two bodyguards.

"Well, Mishal, lead the way! Oh, I hope you don't object to me bringing some security along?"

"No, Minister. of course not! How can I object? In these troubled times, when the enemies of Akbarnistan are skulking everywhere, you don't go anywhere without security! Please, come, my car is over there."

If al-Sulami was indeed recruited by the CIA, he was hiding it truly masterfully. On the way to the village his mouth was constantly open as he told them in great detail about his village and all its inhabitants, old and young. Of course he laid emphasis on positive features with a bit of window dressing, but without lying. A usual good-natured gossip familiar to everyone who rode a taxi in the Middle East at least once.

The villagers of Al-Akshat met their dear guests with salutatory shouts, songs and dances. Before al-Rubai's letter Fareed would have thought it to be a proof that Akbarnistanian people love him and his stepfather, but now he knew for sure they were driven by fear and desire to protect them and their relatives from the tyrant's blind fury. For an instant he felt the urge to tell them the freedom would come soon, but then he remembered about his bodyguards looming behind him and bit his lip.

Despite a bit of nervousness due to the presence of armed soldiers, Fareed's visit to General Haddahm's first wife, speaking in official language, went amid an atmosphere of friendship and mutual understanding. Fareed, Parahk and their guards went from house to house in front of which there was a table set with plain but hearty meals. After the fifth dinner the guests realized they would burst soon so they decided to let their stomachs rest a little and went to the village's center to attend something between a rally and a concert.

The villagers spoke mostly, trying to outdo each other in praising Fareed's deeds as Minister and thanking him for the power plant that fed them. Getting the floor, J'quai tried to speak much and long in order not to let anyone think that talking to people was a burden for him. After some time he started repeating himself, but the audience either didn't notice it or didn't want to notice.

The village elder was the last to speak. "Sayyid J'quai! I know this invitation was a surprise for you, but trust me, you accepting it is a much greater surprise for us! Never before had such an important person stepped on dusty roads of our village! It's a great honor for us and our land, and the tale of your visit will be passed from generation to generation! Thank you for agreeing to be our guest!"

"What could I do, your neighbor, Mishal, made me an offer I couldn't refuse!" Fareed joked. Only few people in Akbarnistan were familiar with works of Puzo and Coppola, but everybody liked the phrase and it became the local custom since then.

"In that case," the elder continued in the same spirit, "I hope you wouldn't be offended if I made you another one like that?"

"I'll try but I must ask you to be careful with your wishes, for they may come true."

The audience liked this phrase even more than the last one.

"Well, I'll try," the elder said when everyone stopped laughing. "You must be asking yourself why we didn't invite you earlier, last year or the year before that. I'll tell you sincerely, and I ask you to forgive me my sincerity in advance, that we were afraid to. Now we know our fears were ungrounded. Evil genies must have fogged our minds and made us think badly of us. Forgive us for this."

"If evil genies did it, it wasn't your fault," Fareed noted reasonably. "So you did nothing to forgive you for. Moreover, you proved stronger than their intrigues and invited me finally."

"Looks that way!" the elder brightened. "Although if it weren't for Allah's help, we'd never overcome the genies. I'm sure He heard our prayers and gave us bravery to speak to you, for you are the only one who can help us."

The elder fell silent, waiting, and Fareed encouraged him. "Please, continue, I'm listening."

"Sayyid J'quai, everybody knows you graduated from Polytechnic University, and its diploma was your ticket to success. You of all people know how difficult it is to enter it. That's why our village still has no engineers or scientists born here. But now we have a chance to end this sad tradition. And it's name is Yusuf. Come here, Yusuf."

A tall lean youth stepped out of the crowd. He was visibly weaker physically than his peers but his eyes were brighter and more intelligent.

"Here's Yusuf," the elder repeated, putting his arm on his shoulder and turning him to face the guest. "Yusuf al-Rakhib. He's the best in his class, even in his entire school, at Math, Geometry, Physics, Chemistry, in short, all hard sciences! Am I right?"

"Right!" everybody confirmed in unison.

"So what's the problem?" Fareed wondered.

"Yusuf, tell Sayyid J'quai," the elder asked.

"I'm bad at Literature," the youth fumbled ashamedly. "And language, too… And I don't even want to talk about History… I hate those subjects, but you have to pass the entry exams…"

"You have," Fareed confirmed. "And why do you dislike 'those subjects' so much?"

"They are dull. Tedious. Unsubstantial. Too much idle talk without any output."

J'quai smiled. "You're strict! But you like Math, do you?"

"Oh, I love Math!" bow-backed Yusuf straightened up and even seemed to grow taller. "Numbers, integrals, abstractions… I even started studying limits on my own, because I learned the entire school program already!"

"See, Pari? You should follow suit!" Fareed whispered into his daughter's ear. "And you said Math was dull…"

"I'm the best in my class in Literature and Poetry!" Parahk countered in a bad temper.

"One does not exclude the other," the Minister said and turned to Yusuf again. "When will you finish school?"

"Next month."

"I see… Well, no problem! Here!" J'quai approached the boy and handed him his business card. "Here are my phone numbers and email address. When you graduate, call or write to me. We'll find a way to deal with 'those subjects'!"

"Thanks, Minister," Yusuf whispered as he took the card with his trembling hands. "Thank you…"

Fareed patted his shoulder. "Thank me when you're admitted!"

"But we will thank you now!" Mishal shouted from the crowd. "Come on everybody! Takbir!"

"Allahu Akbar!" everyone shouted. "Long live Minister J'quai! Thank you! May Allah bless you! Thank you!"

"And now — feast!" the restless policeman called and everybody headed towards the next hospitable house. As soon as food was mentioned, Fareed, Parahk and their entourage felt they could easily eat at least a bull each, so the feast was really great and continued far into the night. The young minister avoided looking at his watch knowing how it would be interpreted, and tried to be constantly busy. That's why he ate, drank, and celebrated more than others, but still glanced to the East from time to time, where his stepfather's winged supersonic death was about to come from.

* 34 *

Finishing his night namaz, Abu Mohammed Selim Jarraqi hid his carefully rolled prayer mat into his locker and ran his finger over his wife's and son's photo attached to its door on the inside. Today, as he was leaving his home, he said good-bye to his wife as always, and then whispered into little Mohammed's ear: "Your father is going to make history!" He felt sad about leaving them, but Selim knew it was the best he could do for them.

"Major Jarraqi, time!" a sergeant on duty called him from a corridor.

"Coming up, Sergeant!"

Glancing at the photograph one last time, the pilot closed his locker. He decided against taking the photo with him. Nothing must distract him during the mission.

He didn't want to talk to anyone, but he forced himself to smile and respond to his mates' greetings in order not to let them suspect anything. Upon meeting the mess-hall chief the major didn't forget to remind him about his old debt, and he promised the technician helping him to put his full pressure suit on to attend his birthday celebration in two days. Before getting into the plane he went around it by tradition and only then saluted the hangar's duty officer and the technicians and climbed into the cockpit. Switching the on-board electric system, he looked at the dashboard with his skillful eyes. All readings were normal.

"Everything's in order!" he shouted to the technicians and lowered the canopy leaving a small slit for ventilation as the instructions prescribed. He knew his native airbase by heart and taxied to the runway almost mindlessly. Also mindlessly, automatically, he spoke all standard requests and responses into his microphone. If only they didn't cancel his flight. If only they didn't order him to come back. If only they allowed him to take off. If he takes off, consider it done…

_Give me take-off! Give me—_

"Tiger-Ten, permission to take-off!"

"Tiger-Ten, acknowledged!"

"Good luck, Major!"

"Thank you…"

Its turbine roaring, MiG-23BN dashed along the runway and dissolved in the night sky. Switching sweep to 33 degrees, Selim started climbing, at the same time turning north-west. When his plane was set on the required course, Jarraqi's hand instinctively moved to the throttle handle, but he ordered himself to keep his current speed. The operation was calculated down to seconds, and no matter how great his desire to get to his destination as soon as possible was, in this case it was better to be a bit late than come too soon, becoming an easy prey of blood- and metal-thirsty missiles.

"Where?" a bearded hulk in black business suit stopped Colonel al-Khasib.

"To the General, to make my report," Mahmud nodded at the carved door behind the bodyguard.

"The General ordered to let nobody in until further notice. You can tell me everything, I'll pass it on."

"The report is top secret, only the General may hear it."

"The General ordered to let nobody in until further notice," the bodyguard repeated word for word to al-Khasib's great surprise. He was sure such a small head couldn't contain such a long phrase.

"Then as soon as the General is available, tell him I came."

"You can tell me everything, I'll pass it on."

_Now it's clear,_ Mahmud thought. _He managed to learn it all because he forgot everything else…_

"No, thanks, I'll come back later," he said and left.

He wasn't disappointed at all. After returning from the city the General was not his usual self and just mumbled something in response to salute. When al-Khasib saw Fareed and Parahk didn't come with him, he suspected something was wrong, but then guardsmen from escort reported him about the situation at the cemetery and he felt relieved. Everything was coming together way better than they hoped. Fareed and Parahk stayed in the city under specious pretext and would be unaffected by the strike while Haddahm and his wife locked themselves in their suite and ordered the food to be delivered to them there. They were still inside and, apparently, weren't going to go out in the near future. Which was exactly what was needed.

Entering the second floor balcony, the colonel inhaled winy evening air deeply and looked down on a palm tree grove on a lower tier which hid the missile guidance station's antenna. The darkness and dense canopy didn't allow him to see her, but it was undoubtedly rotating constantly scanning the surroundings in search of unauthorized flying objects.

_Let's see how it likes this,_ Mahmud thought, putting his hand in his trousers pocket and pressing the only button on a miniature remote control which came together with the 'screw-nut'. It functioned for only fractions of a second completely draining its battery, but by this time a high frequency impulse it generated had already reached the ring-shaped charge, and the data cable, cut at its base, fell limply to the ground. Al-Khasib heard neither an explosion nor the sound of its falling, but when an operator ran out from an unremarkable accessory building which housed the radar control station and dashed towards the grove, the colonel knew his plan worked.

_Come on, Selim, now you're our hope! May Allah help you!_ The colonel silently addressed the distant and unfamiliar, but already dear to him pilot, and went to his office, flushing the miniature remote control down the toilet on his way there. As soon as he sat down at his table, somebody knocked at his door.

"Come in!" Al-Khasib shouted quickly, grabbing some document and pretending to be reading it.

"Colonel!" a pale lieutenant shouted from the threshold. "We have an emergency!"

"What happened?"

"Missile guidance station stopped working!"

"WHAT?!" Al-Khasib jumped up. "When?! Why?!"

"I wouldn't know, Colonel—"

"Follow me, quickly!" the garrison commander ordered tearing his visored cap off the hanger.

"I must report to the General…" the messenger said uneasily. It was clear that Haddahm's suite was the last place on Earth he would like to go at the moment, and Mahmud took advantage of it.

"I'll report to him myself when there is something to report!" he told the lieutenant. "Follow me, on the double!"

Jarraqi began to change his course in advance to avoid suspicious sharp maneuvers later. When the first angry bark from the ground control came, he apologized and pretended to make a turn back, and when they called him for the second time he explained he didn't want to intersect the commercial air route. It worked but the mayor knew he won five minutes at most. He doubted the ground operators would guess his real plans but they could think he was going to defect to Turkey. They won't shoot him down immediately and will try to intercept him and force him to land first. As if he needed to be forced to go down…

Selim put his night vision goggles on. Those were part of the standard outfit of every fighter-bomber to make it easier to locate and destroy ground targets, but this time Selim was more interested in the sky, for the message for him alone was due to appear on its black canvas…

"Tiger-Ten! Calling Tiger-Ten! Major Jarraqi! Respond! You're off the track! Tiger-Ten! Do you copy? Regain your track immediately! Tiger-Ten!"

"It's Tiger-Ten!" Selim shouted feigning desperation. "I've got a critical situation! Rudders aren't responding! The aircraft is careening to the left! Can't stabilize!"

"Tiger-Ten, regain your track!"

"I can't hear you!" the pilot shouted louder as he peered into the dark-green haze around him looking for the prearranged way mark. He deliberately approached Meise from the east to see four out of six palaces at once. But it also meant he was a target of four SAM sites at once. There were no missile alarms yet, but that could change any second—

_Allahu Akbar! Here it is!_

Indeed, far to his left, to the south of the city, a red beam, narrow like a blade of Damascus dagger appeared in the sky. One could think it was a trick of the eye, but Selim was one of those selected few who knew its secret and knew it was not a flat 'blade' protruding from the ground but a cone whose tip ran into a base of the 'shaving foam canister'. Fareed was told to dig it into a flower pot on his balcony, but since he stayed in the city, Mahmud had to do it, and since the colonel enjoyed even more freedom of movement about the palace, he set the beacon in the empty suite closest to the dictator's apartments. The battery had enough charge for 24 hours of work during which a powerful beam was emanating into the sky visible only to those whose eyes could detect the infrared part of the electromagnetic spectrum. Owing to his night vision goggles, major Jarraqi was one of those, and now he knew everything he needed to accomplish his last and the most important combat mission…

"Tiger-Ten! You're in the restricted area! I repeat, Tiger-Ten, you're in the restricted area! Turn back or you'll be shot!"

"I can't!" the mayor yelled back. "The plane's out of control! I repeat! The plane's out of control! I'm ejecting!"

"Tiger-Ten, repeat!" the ground control demanded, but Jarraqi turned his radio off. Let them think he really ejected. That would give him a few more seconds, but for a supersonic fighter-bomber that was aeons…

"Bismillahir rahmanir rahim!" Selim uttered solemnly, then switched the wings to maximum sweep, powered the engine up to its limit and directed MiG at the beast's lair marked with the 'dagger' tip.

Colonel al-Khasib was enraged. "HOW DID IT HAPPEN?! HOW COULD IT BE?! HOW?! I'M ASKING YOU!"

"We don't know, Colonel…" shaking guardsmen jabbered.

"And who does?! What were you stationed here for, huh?! To let no viper wriggle by you! And you…" Mahmud shoved the charred end of the cable under the technical team chief's nose. "How is this called?! How is this called, I ask you?! Answer me!"

"C-c-cable…"

"C-c-cable…" the colonel mocked him. "I can see it's 'c-c-cable' myself! I'll make you eat this 'c-c-cable' now! I'll put it into your left ear and pull it from the right one! Maybe that will clear your mind! If the antenna isn't working in five minutes, all of you will face the tribunal! Every one of you! Is it clear?!"

"Colonel—"

"WHAT NOW?!" Mahmud roared as he turned his fiery gaze towards the approaching radar operator.

"Some aircraft is approaching—"

The colonel squinted to make his smile look menacing and not triumphant. "What aircraft?"

"Fighter… Probably… Something went wrong…"

"WHAT?!" Al-Khasib pretended to understand nothing. "Something went wrong with you again?! Why didn't you report?!"

"Something went wrong with him… He diverted from his track greatly, said his plane lost control…"

"Let's go and look at that flyer!" the garrison commander ordered. As he was leaving, he didn't forget to yell at the chief technician: "AND YOU REPAIR THE ANTENNA!"

The chief technician ran looking for a spare cable while the operator led Mahmud to his workplace in the radar station control room where all the data from all the radars flowed.

"Come here, Colonel—" the guardsman pointed at the empty console.

"I see!" Mahmud roared. He unceremoniously plopped down into the chair and started dabbing the screen with his finger. "And where is it? Here? Or here? Show me!"

"Colonel, may I—" the operator asked humbly.

"You may! Show it!" Mahmud encouraged him. He knew his subordinate was asking him to free his workstation and he was right to do so, for the statute clearly read that only the operator on duty could occupy the workstation and nobody else. But it was time not to observe the statute but to create chaos and stall for a time. "Come on! I'm waiting!"

Just as he predicted, the operator pointed at the intensity-modulated indicator in the upper right corner. "Here it is!"

"I see it! What plane is this? Did you communicate with it?"

"We intercepted communication between him and the nearby airbase. It's a patrol fighter-bomber. It diverted from its track significantly and entered our sector. It's fifty kilometers away and soon it will be in our missile range, but without the guidance station…"

"I know! What do you personally propose?"

"First we should raise the alarm—"

"We can always do that," al-Khasib interrupted him. "As for me, I see no great danger at the moment. Just radio him and warn that he's entering a restricted area and will be shot down."

"We did that, Colonel!" the operator at the adjacent console reported. "He said he had an emergency and was going to eject!"

"Really? Well, you should have told that from the start! It changes everything!" Mahmud wiped his arms in satisfaction. "So there's nothing to worry about! And you say 'alarm, alarm'! You shouldn't raise alarms without reason! It's all due to idleness, I'm telling you! You'd better go and help those goof-ups fix the antenna, or they'll niggle with it till morning! Alright, dismissed—"

"COLONEL! IT'S ACCELERATING!"

Mahmud sat back into the chair. "Calm down, Lieutenant, and report according to the form! Who is accelerating, where he is accelerating, why he is accelerating—"

"That aircraft!" the second operator furiously dabbed his screen with his finger. "It's accelerating and… it's turning! It—"

"Wait a minute! How could it accelerate? You said the pilot ejected!"

"I don't know! But it definitely accelerated, turned and… AND IT'S FLYING RIGHT AT US!"

"What do you mean 'at us'?! Where is 'at us'?!"

"At the palace, Colonel!"

"WHAT?!" Mahmud looked at the screen in front of him. "Where is he? Here?"

"No, here it is," the console owner prompted.

"This one? But it isn't moving at all! Oh, I see now, it's moving… And where are we?"

"In the center, Colonel!" the operator behind him was almost crying. "And it's flying right into the center! We must shoot it down! Order to raise the alarm! Our anti-air guns—"

"No alarms or guns until you explain to me what's going on here!"

"Colonel, you… Are you crazy?!"

"HOW DARE YOU, WHELP, TALK TO YOUR SUPERIOR LIKE THAT?!" Al-Khasib roared, feeling surprised at how easy he played the role of high-ranking half-wit whom he would have shot long ago if he were the operator. "YOU WANT TO GO TO SWEAT BOX?! I CAN ARRANGE THAT!"

"COLONEL, YOU—" the soldier who cared no more started yelling, too, but Mahmud was deaf to his pleas and insults. Like everyone else in the control room, for that matter, deafened by a rumble of an explosion that shook the entire building.

"WE'RE BOMBED!" somebody shouted trying to overcome both the rumble and the strained roar that came next. He failed but the others thought the same so they understood him perfectly and stayed to wait the air raid out protected by beams and ceiling. Only colonel al-Khasib ran outside, but the soldiers had grown accustomed to his inadequacy already and took that for granted. In contrast, Mahmud was bewildered, and only when he ran out into the yard and saw the flames roaring over the remains of the palace north wing he realized everything went according to the plan, and the roar could be heard because Jarraqi's plane outran the sound of its own engine. As the older acoustic waves rolled over the palace, it grew quieter, dissolving in the distance and giving place to shouts and already useless alarm sirens.

"COLONEL! COLONEL! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" One of the guardsmen crowded on the terrace shouted at him, too scared and nervous to observe subordination.

"I don't know!" the garrison commander lied. "Where's your squad leader?"

Major supervising the perimeter security stepped forward. "I'm here, Colonel!"

"Have you seen the General?!"

"No! He— He must be there!" the soldier pointed at the demolished third floor. "He… Oh, no…"

A shout came from behind. "Allahu Akbar! Dictator's dead! He'll burn in Jahannam now!"

Everybody turned and saw one of the radar technicians who watched the fire, smiling and raising his hands to the sky. Al-Khasib understood his feelings perfectly, but Fareed's instructions were clear: pretend to be faithful to Haddahm until he officially becomes the head of the state. That's why the colonel silently unholstered his Tariq pistol and fired three times.

"Colonel!" Major shouted, taken aback by swiftness and cruelty of the execution. "What— Why did you do that?!"

"Because this traitor deserved nothing else!" Mahmud explained. "It's clearly a conspiracy, and now I know who damaged the antenna!"

"Yes, but… He must have had accomplices!"

"I know! Here's what we're going to do. I'll take a squad of guardsmen and go after Minister J'quai. When we leave, close the gates and let no one in or out!"

"Acknowledged, Colonel!"

"And make everyone up to the lowliest janitor gather on the drill ground in five minutes and wait for us! Everyone!"

"But what about—" Major pointed at the fire.

"In due time! Any questions?!"

"No questions!"

"You've got five minutes! And take this away!" Al-Khasib pointed at the dead technician and headed towards the stairs leading to the drill ground, but was stopped by a sentinel's shrieking scream: "TANKS!"

"What?! What tanks?!" Mahmud jumped up and ran to the observation post.

"From the west! At least two companies!" the guardsman pointed into darkness. Shouldering him away from the stationary night vision binoculars, the colonel glued his eyes to the eyepieces and personally confirmed the presence of rows of armored vehicles crawling towards the palace. Then a polyphonic chirr reached his ears, and he raised the binoculars to see indistinct silhouettes of attack choppers in the air.

"Shaitan!" al-Khasib couldn't help swearing. Ordering sentries to man their combat stations and watch the strangers closely, he ran to the room next to the radar station where radio operators sat. "Scan the band! Tanks and helicopters are approaching, I need to know who it is and where they came from!"

"We know it already!" the chief radio operator reported. "It's the First mechanized division and Seventh helicopter squadron. They are moving towards us. They demand to stay where we are and to open the gates!"

Mahmud felt sick at his stomach. First mechanized division comprising one armored and two mechanized brigades was part of Fifth corps stationed in the vicinity of Al-Mavsil, almost one hundred kilometers to the south, and Seventh helicopter squadron's base was even farther, in Karkuk. They couldn't pass that distance in seven minutes since the explosion. If they didn't move out in advance, that is…

"What should I answer them?" the radio operator asked.

"That nobody will let them here without the Commander-in-Chief's order, so they must turn around!"

"They say they have the order."

"Whose?"

"Commander-in-Chief's. General al-Meisei's."

"Really? Give me your headphones… Are we on their frequency?"

"Yes, Colonel!"

"Good…" Mahmud cleared his throat and switched the microphone on. "This is Colonel al-Khasib of the Special Republican Guard, head of the special palace complex Meise-Four speaking! You are approaching a restricted area, I repeat, you are approaching a restricted area! Stop immediately!"

"This is Major General Abdulmujib al-Zubayri, commander of Fifth corps speaking!" the headset responded. "I have orders to inspect the palace!"

"General," Mahmud's voice warmed up noticeably but didn't soften even a bit. "I am sorry but me and my people subordinate directly to Commander-in-Chief of Akbarnistanian Armed Forces, and without his order—"

"I have the order!" Al-Zubayri cut him short. "I have personal order from General Haddahm al-Meisei! Didn't they tell you?!"

"They did, General. But I am afraid I have some bad news. Eight, no, it's already nine, minutes ago General Haddahm perished tragically and is no longer Commander-in-Chief."

"Even if it's true," Major General said, his voice sounding unsurprised at all, "I received his order one hour and thirty one minutes ago, so it's still valid. You won't deny General Haddahm was acting Commander-in-Chief at the time, will you?"

His latest words carried a thinly veiled threat gradually changing into mockery. Trademark al-Zubayri's style. Patronized by Haddahm himself who valued Abdulmujib's frankness, ingenuousness, and cruelty, he commanded one fifth of the entire Akbarnistanian regular army at age of just 47. His subordinates feared him, his equals hated him, and his superiors disliked him. But he was a master of his craft, beastly loyal to the dictator, and had to be treated with utmost care…

"I won't, General!" Mahmud said. "Tell me, who else knows about the Commander-in-Chief's order and can confirm your words?"

Al-Zubayri choked over this insult. "You dare to doubt my words?!"

"I do, General al-Zubayri! Yes, you are Major General, and I am Colonel. But you are an officer of the regular army, and I am from the Special Republican Guard, so my rank corresponds to Army's Brigadier General! Moreover, I command the garrison of a special high security facility, unauthorized entry to which, not to mention armed assault, will be considered high treason! And if you try to attack us, you'll be written into the history of Akbarnistan as a backstabbing traitor!"

"The winner will determine who and how will be written into the history of Akbarnistan," General objected. "And given my total superiority in men and heavy armaments, it won't be you, Colonel! I don't care whether you believe me or not, but I have an order to inspect the palace, and I'll do everything I can to fulfill it! The ball's in your court now!"

Mahmud wiped sweat off his face. He knew the corps commander wasn't joking and now the fate of the company of guardsmen and three dozens of civilians working at the palace was in his own hands. Yes, all of them were either soldiers or agents of the Directorate of Internal Security, but the radar technician's case showed that even among those who passed through scrutinized screening there were people sincerely wishing Haddahm to die. How can he devoid them of hopes to live in peace and comfort and send them to their certain death now, when their dream came true? The technician was a forced sacrifice needed to divert suspicions away from him, Fareed and Parahk. But what will be other sacrifices for? No matter how many soldiers, helicopters, or tanks al-Zubayri brought along with him, he would change nothing. General Haddahm bin Hassad al-Meisei was dead. And if he, Colonel Mahmud al-Khasib from the Special Republican Guard, orders to open fire now, it will mean that this bloody tyrant continues to kill people even after his death…

"Colonel, are you there? Why are you holding your tongue?! One more second, and we open fire! Do you copy?!"

"I do, General. No fire is needed. I'll order my men to let you in."

"I'm glad to hear that, Colonel! You saved us both plenty of men and ammo! Don't dare to change our mind! Over!"

"Over," al-Khasib repeated, barely restraining himself from adding some pithy epithet. Only his subordinate's presence kept him from it, as well as knowledge that Abdulmujib al-Zubayri wouldn't stay General for too long now.

"Colonel, what will be the orders?" the radio operator said.

"Tell everyone not to shoot! And tell them to open the gates and clear the landing pads!" Mahmud ordered and left without waiting for acknowledgement and wondering how Major General was going to billet his forces on the drill ground.

As it turned out, al-Zubayri didn't plan to do it. Only command APC and MT-LBs carrying an infantry platoon entered the palace grounds. The rest of the infantry and tanks, as well as nine helicopters, spread along the perimeter. The tenth helicopter hovered above the palace, looking like some fire-breathing genie because of flames glinting on its canopy.

"What's going on? What'll happen next?" the guardsmen lined up on the drill ground whispered to one another. Nobody knew the answer, so as soon as colonel al-Khasib entered the square, everybody fell silent even before the platoon commanders called them to attention. Ignoring the stares directed at him, Mahmud went straight to the APC. He was awaited by four soldiers and the General with bushy moustache, his wide green shoulder marks embroidered with golden crossed sabers. The other al-Zubayri's soldiers lined up along their MT-LBs and watched the guardsmen warily.

"Sayyid Major General!" Despite his hatred, Mahmud saluted the unwelcome guest by the book. "Colonel Mahmud al-Khasib of Special Republican Guard, commander of garrison of special palace complex Meise-Four! It's a great honor for us all to welcome you here! To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I have the order from Commander-in-Chief of Akbarnistanian Armed Forces General Haddahm bin Hassad al-Meisei to inspect the special palace complex Meise-Four," General Major uttered his own ritual phrase. Unlike the radio conversation, this dialogue was public fare and sounded deliberately official and even somewhat grand.

"May I ask when exactly you were given this order?" the colonel knew the answer already, and asked it for the sake of his subordinates and for the record.

"Today, at twenty one hours eighteen minutes, and headed here immediately. Report the situation!"

"It is with a heavy heart I have to tell you, Sayyid General Major, that at twenty two hours thirty nine minutes Commander-in-Chief of Akbarnistanian Armed Forces General Haddahm bin Hassad al-Meisei tragically perished."

Mahmud pointed at the fire and al-Zubayri looked at it with such interest as if he noticed it only now. But when he spoke again, his curiosity was real. "What exactly happened here?"

"At twenty two hours thirty one minutes an unidentified aircraft invaded our aerospace. Radio communications revealed it was a MiG-23 patrol fighter-bomber, callsign Tiger-Ten, headed towards the northern border and diverted significantly from its track, according to the pilot, due to control issues. At twenty two hours thirty six minutes the pilot informed us he was going to eject, but instead the aircraft turned towards us, rapidly accelerated, and in three minutes it collided with the third floor of the palace northern wing. General al-Meisei and his wife were in their personal suite when it happened. My subordinates tried to get there, but everything is in ruins and covered with spilled aircraft fuel. Nobody could have survived there."

The colonel bowed his head as a token of his regret, and those around him followed suit. Except General Major. "Why didn't you shoot the plane down with your anti-aircraft missiles?" he asked.

Mahmud found the visitor asking too many questions. But he remembered the tanks surrounding the palace and the fact that the system built by Haddahm was in its final hours, and answered calmly, for his version explained all the facts available. "Six minutes before the aircraft appeared one of the radar technicians made the missile guidance station inoperative."

Al-Zubayri raised his eyebrow. "Really? Interesting. So it was a conspiracy?"

"I don't doubt it."

"What does the technician say?"

"Unfortunately, we couldn't interrogate him. He resisted arrest and was shot while attempting to escape."

"That's bad."

"I agree, Sayyid General Major. But I ordered my soldiers to round up everyone working in the palace on the drill ground. If that technician had any accomplices, they are here now!"

The commander of Fifth Corps glanced at neat rows of guardsmen and crowded civilians and smiled. "Good job, Colonel!" he praised Mahmud. "It's good to deal with people who don't lose their head and waste no time in critical situations! You are a true soldier and a faithful son of Akbarnistan! Let me shake your hand!"

Mahmud didn't quite have a bad feeling about that, rather that it was too good to be true. But he was obliged to accept the handshake and he did that. General clenched his palm in steel grasp, put his other hand on the colonel's shoulder, and leaned his face close to his ear. "And now, Colonel, keep smiling and listed carefully," he ordered quietly, almost in a whisper. "Slowly, with no sudden movements, turn and look at the helicopter."

Al-Khasib was strong enough to break free, but a mixture of confusion and curiosity made him obey and look in the specified direction. The helicopter, a standard Soviet-made Mil Mi-24, was still hovering above the palace, turning its hooked nose from side to side. His bottom was orange from the fire, allowing the armaments it carried under its wings to be clearly visible. There were four narrow launch tubes of anti-tank missiles, two containers of non-guided rockets and a pair of fat 500-kg bombs marked with two wide stripes.

"Do you see the bombs?" al-Zubayri asked.

"I do," Mahmud's mouth went dry and his voice was coarse. "Sayyid General, you aren't going to—"

"What color do their stripes have?"

"I don't know," the colonel mechanically answered with formal phrases. "Can't see them from here. They are dark."

"Dark green," the general corrected him.

Al-Khasib got cold feet. Two dark green stripes on bombs and shells indicated that their conventional payload was replaced with two containers with components of sarin, a deadly nerve gas created in flight to lengthen the lifespan of this very unstable substance. Haddahm's army widely used this weapon of mass destruction during war against Ayran and later, to quell unruly Kurds who lived compactly in the north-east of Akbarnistan. For many years they demanded autonomy but chemical attacks tamped their ardor down and they've been quiet for the last few years. "Sayyid General—"

"Shut up, Colonel, I'm not finished yet. Order your men to lay down their arms. Everything to the last bullet. At the slightest sign of disobedience my pilots will drop everything they got on this square, including twenty bombs with sarin. Any questions?"

"But why—"

"Any questions?" Abdulmujib repeated pointedly.

"No questions, Sayyid General," Mahmud answered and turned to his guardsmen. He knew he could order 'Fire!' and die, taking General Major al-Zubayri along with him to the grave, as well as at least a platoon of his soldiers his guardsmen would manage to kill before tons of sarin poured down on their heads. And they will pour, for al-Zubayri was a fanatic and fanatics never bluff. But even conventional bombs and rockets would be enough to kill everyone on the drill ground, and those who'd manage to take cover would be hunted down by the armored division surrounding the palace…

But why? What is this for? What's going on?!

_They know something,_ al-Khasib concluded. _Or they suspect. If not Fareed, then me for sure. Let it be so. When Fareed becomes the ruler, they won't be able to do anything. Only I know that Fareed is behind it. So I must die. Guardsmen don't surrender. But they don't have to die. I'll die alone…_

Everybody makes mistakes sometimes. Previously colonel al-Khasib had to send his subordinates to their death on more than one occasion. but this time he showed criminal, unforgivable flabbiness. He could be understood, though. He didn't know the most important thing…

"Company!" he shouted loudly. "Listen to my order! Lay your arms down!"

A murmur ran through the ranks.

"DO IT!"

"Lay your arms down!" the platoon commanders repeated his order. Then the squad commanders shouted the same, and guardsmen put their assault rifles, pistols and knives on the ground. Several of the general's soldiers ran along the ranks and carried all the weapons to the APCs.

"Thank you, Colonel!" General let al-Khasib's hand go and pointed at his holster. "Now it's your turn!"

Everything should have gone quickly and easily. Unfasten the holster cover, take out the gun, and fire. He fired today already, so there was no need to rack the slide. He needed just to release the safety catch, point the gun at himself and pull the trigger. It would take a mere second and a half, no more…

But he was deprived even of those.

As soon as Mahmud automatically lowered his gaze at his holster, the general kicked him into the solar plexus with his boot tip, simultaneously punching him in his jaw with a right hook. The visored cap flew off the colonel's head and rolled aside, while he groaned curtly and fell down on his right side. His subordinates yelled. They had no reasons to love their commander, but he was one of them, from the Special Republican Guard. The first rows even dashed forward but cracks of slides being racked came from all around them, suggesting unambiguously that their next step would be their last.

"Let me, Colonel!" Al-Zubayri grinned. Leaning over his knocked out opponent, he took his Tariq from his holster and weighed the pistol on his palm. "Good weapon. Too bad it falls into wrong hands sometimes…" General Major smacked his lips in disappointment, then shoved the gun under his belt and waved at his soldiers. "Get him! And all the rest! Radio! Give me HQ, quickly!"

…Search for those guilty didn't take long. All the soldiers guarding the antenna unanimously told that Colonel al-Khasib was the only one who crawled under the antenna. It was enough to make far-reaching conclusions already, and when the radar operator vividly described Mahmud's behavior in the control room there were no more doubts left than there was water in Syrian Desert. And when investigators from the Directorate of Internal Security know what answers they need to get, denial is futile. And painful. Very, very painful…

* 35 *

"At last!" Fareed muttered under his breath in irritation, rubbing his eyes and pulling his bathrobe closer around him as he went to the door. The windows of the luxury suit on the hotel's top floor which was constantly reserved for the ruling family members allowed a great view of blaze of fire engulfing the palace. So he knew from the start that their plan worked and had been driving sleep away all this time so that he wouldn't have to wake up when Mahmud arrived to 'inform' him of his 'beloved' stepfather's tragic death. But hours went by, the colonel wasn't coming, and the tiredness accumulated during the day got the best of the young Minister of Industry and soon-to-be Supreme Ruler of Akbarnistan. Or rather, Chairman of the Council of Ministers of Akbarnistan, since Fareed decided long ago to discontinue the position of Supreme Ruler as another proof that old times would never come back…

"Coming! I'm coming!" he shouted answering the knock at the door repeated for the tenth time already. Passing by a mirror, he made sure he looked sleepy and disheveled enough and unlocked the door letting his future in.

And his past.

"F— FATHER?! But you're—"

"Alive, as you can see," Haddahm agreed and tilted his head to the side. "Disappointed?"

"No, father, of course not!" J'quai managed to more or less brace himself and smiled forcedly. "It's just so unexpected. I thought you'd stay in the palace…"

"I was there," General acknowledged. "And you know what funny thing happened? An aircraft crashed into it. MiG-21."

"Twenty three—" Fareed corrected him mindlessly making the stupidest mistake possible.

"Yes, you're right, twenty three," al-Meisei smiled widely and unpleasantly. "Thanks. son. Get him!"

He stepped back a little and DIS agents lurking by the door rushed inside. Before J'quai knew it he was subdued, brought into the room and forced into an armchair. Fighting was out of question; he was held so tightly it was difficult even to move his head.

"Lying is useless," Haddahm stated as he stood in front of Fareed and looked down at him. There was no anger, hatred, or disdain in his eyes. There were no emotions at all. "And keeping silence, too. Mahmud told us everything. About Jarraqi, bomb on the cable, infrared beacon. And about you, too. I'm very displeased with you, Fareed."

"How did you… survive?" Fareed hissed overcoming pain in his retrofracted arms.

The tyrant grinned. "Allah favors me."

"That's not the answer!"

"Not the whole answer," Haddahm said and started walking hence and forth with his hands behind his back. "In part I owe it to you."

"What do you… mean?"

"Your suggestions, of course. Your ideas," General put his fingers to his lips. "Wonderful, I'd even say superb ideas! Replace the garrison commanders, accept the invitation of that wretched beggar, stay in the city for the night in order not to betray which palace I'm staying… Perfect, just perfect! And you know what I thought? You don't? But I decided to keep pace with you, moreover, to go even further and return to another, neighboring palace. Clever, isn't it?"

"And who was… at the palace?"

"My best and most faithful double. of course. And my wife. For persuasiveness."

"Double…" Fareed shut his eyes in order not to yell in desperation, but then a thought occurred to him. "Wait, you… You're not my father! You… You're his double! Double! Impostor! You decided… decided to seize the opportunity and proclaim yourself Haddahm, didn't you? Usurper!"

General smiled. "Now that's rich coming from you. Usurper… What a poetic word! Heard those in Europe, huh? Oh, son, son. A double can deceive a crowd in the square, an assassin or your own security. He deceived Mahmud, too. But could he deceive you? Look at me, Fareed. Look at me, I say!"

J'quai deliberately looked the other way but the agents helped him to find a right angle of view.

"That's better. Look at me," Haddahm leaned closer. "You know it's me. I see you know. It's in your eyes."

Fareed wanted to use the opportunity and spit, but the agent on his right was nimble enough and all saliva ended up on his palm and Minister's lips.

"How ill-mannered of you," General winced but got a hint and stepped back. "They teach that in Europe? Or is it 'made in the USA', like that beacon and mini-bomb? Cripple the antenna, guide the fighter… You never do that to your father, Fareed."

The young man's face became crimson with rage. "What about your daughter? Do you do _that_ to your daughter?!"

"If you mean Azyza, we simply sped up the inevitable."

"Inevitable?! You killed her!"

"I didn't," Haddahm objected. "She was dead already. I just relieved her sufferings."

"Really? So you were thinking of her good when you told al-Rubai that members of our ancient and heroic family shouldn't live like 'worthless wordless vegetable'?!"

"Of course. Thanks to me she left the world of pain and tears and took her rightful place in Jannah. Every loving father would have done the same thing. It was my paternal duty."

"Paternal duty?!" Fareed yelled but his yell was a whisper compared to a scream coming from the inner part of the suite. "GRANDPA! YOU KILLED MOMMY?!"

Everybody who could turn, that is, Haddahm and one of the agents, turned to Parahk. She was standing on the threshold of her bedroom, her long nightgown and disordered hair making her look like a thin pale ghost.

"Pari, dear," General smiled kindly. "You got it all wrong…"

"Tell her, father!" Fareed demanded through set teeth. "Tell her what you told al-Rubai! Or you won't dare?!"

"Shut up!" al-Meisei ordered, and one of his henchmen covered J'quai's mouth. Satisfied, General added sweetness to his voice again. "Pari, love, we're having a grown-ups' conversation with your daddy, so be a good girl and go to bed."

"I don't want to!" The girl stomped her foot. "I'm big already! I have the right to know!"

"Pari!"

Fareed mumbled something and tried to bite the agent's palm. He failed, but Pari had already heard more than enough. "Grandpa, tell me, is it true? You ordered to kill Mommy?"

"No, dear," Haddahm squatted down so that their eyes were leveled. "Of course not!"

Parahk sniffled. "And why Daddy says so then?"

"He just got everything wrong."

"Then explain to him, Grandpa! He's the cleverest Daddy in the world, he'll understand everything!"

"I tried, Parahk, but—"

"Why are these men holding him? They are bad! Tell them to let him go!"

"I can't, Pari."

"Why? You are the boss! Everybody listen to you!"

"I know," General sighed sadly. "But your Daddy here doesn't listen. He even tried to kill me. He failed, as you can see, but your Granny Fatima died. You feel pity for Granny Fatima, don't you, Parahk?"

The girl sobbed but before she could answer her father's teeth finally caught the agent's finger. The agent screamed and weakened his hold, and although his partner came to his help immediately, the Minister managed to shout: "HE'S LYING, PARI— ARGH…!"

"NO!" Parahk shrieked watching her father doubling over punched hard into his stomach. "GRANDPA! STOP THEM! PLEASE!"

"Pari, calm down!" Haddahm raised his voice. He shouldn't have done it. His granddaughter was too young to comprehend the entirety of the situation, but it was obvious even to her that her Daddy is in pain and fear, and her Grandpa had no intention to help him. Pushing the General's hand away, the girl ran to the armchair, cried "Let my Daddy go!", and grabbed the palm covering Fareed's mouth while also painfully kicking its owner's ankle. The man was aware who he was dealing with so he courageously suffered through it waiting for his superior's instructions.

"Parahk! Come here!" The tyrant ordered sternly. "Come here, I said!"

"No! I don't want to!" The girl shook her head violently. "You're with them! You are bad! Bad! I hate you! Hate you! Hate you!"

Even the most obscene and harsh words should be divided at least by ten when spoken by an emotional child who doesn't fully understand their meaning and sense. But Haddahm wouldn't be a paranoiac if he weren't used to taking everything very seriously.

"Get her!" he commanded briefly. The agents of Directorate of Internal Security knew too well what would happen if they disobey, but they took into account that they were dealing with the First Granddaughter and abstained from applying the most effective moves they knew. The nearest of them simply grabbed Parahk by her shoulder, turned her around and put his arm around her waist to protect himself from her little teeth and fingernails. Her heels remained, though, but they hit his lower leg protected by his pants which was quite endurable. This way the girl was neutralized, but Fareed regained his freedom of speaking again.

"Father! Let her go! She has nothing to do with it! Do you hear me?! Nothing!"

"I can hear you, son," Haddahm said sadly, looking old and shriveled like never before. "Moreover, I know she has nothing to do with it. But I have already nurtured one snake in my bosom — you. An al-Meisei's never take risks twice. On the other hand, I think you'll agree that to separate father and daughter would be the height of cynicism and cruelty."

"You are a monster, STEPFATHER!" Fareed shouted, deliberately stressing the last word.

General smiled with a corner of his mouth. "I know, I've been told that already. Take them away!"

* 36 *

…This public execution was about to become the event of the decade. For the first time since the Republic of Akbarnistan was proclaimed, members of the first family were among the sentenced, and with a vengeance: Haddahm's successor himself and his own granddaughter! This alone was enough for Akbarnistan to gain world attention, and Fareed and Parahk were far from the only ones to be executed. The execution was about to become not only the most stately, but also the most massive for several years. In addition to 'backstabbing traitors from the Supreme Ruler's innermost circle', 'severe but just punishment' was in store for 'enemy agents sympathizing and assisting their criminal intents in every way possible'.

Since former major Selim Jarraqi perished along with his plane, and former colonel Mahmud al-Khasib of Special Republican Guard died from injuries sustained during pre-trial investigation, their closest relatives were about to climb the scaffold. Same fate was arranged for family members of Omar ibn Hassan al-Rubai as a way for him to pay for his father's crime of oath-breaking, and all grown-ups of Al-Akshat village who 'criminally conspired with traitorous J'quai's'. But even that wasn't enough for Haddahm. A creative and calculating person, he never allowed himself to tinker at the margins and never gave up until he squeezed everything up to the last drop, be it emotions, practical result or, like this time, a final master's stroke turning a simply nice picture into a true masterpiece.

The first such stroke was a vivid demonstration of the effectiveness of law enforcement and legal systems created by General al-Meisei. Rapidity of trial unseen even for Haddahm's regime, almost one hundred death sentences pronounced in dry formal manner, and full-scale preparations for the execution scheduled for 6 PM on May 2, left no doubts: the reckoning is as inevitable as sunset. But it was nothing compared to the real shocker: irrefutable proofs of subversive activities of the USA and their puppets against sovereign Akbarnistan. That was harder to arrange since all material evidence was destroyed, both prime actors were dead, and while Fareed's close cooperation with Western spies was undoubtful, his motives threw a shadow on Haddahm himself and thus had to be concealed. A man from outside was needed, and there was no better candidate than low-level provincial policeman Mishal al-Sulami…

"…So let's count it again. First, capability. Your village is located not too far from the border, just ten kilometers to the north and you can see Turkey. From there you can communicate via your car radio or send smoke signals, whatever. Second, motive. Your wife is half-cousin of my late first wife, so you surely had reasons to get inflamed with unjust but searing thirst for revenge? Third, direct contact with the leading conspirator, Fareed J'quai! Three, mind you, three damning evidences against you! And you still have a nerve to deny it?"

Haddahm's stentorian voice not just rang in the policeman's ears but hit him hard at his head. No magic, just an elementary acoustic effect created by bullet-like shape of the interrogation cell and precise positioning of the prisoner. Maybe there was something else, but al-Sulami couldn't see that due to darkness and a thick blindfold. A slight stir of air told him there was a window in the room, and a movement behind his back indicated that there was someone else here aside from him and the General. One, two, or maybe even three people. In absence of sight his hearing grew very sensitive and owing to perfect audibility it literally flooded his brain with information which sometimes was hard to process correctly. This caused hallucinations and gave a broad space for interpreting them which only made his fear worse…

"So, Mishal? Will you cooperate?"

"Uh-uh," the policeman mumbled negatively, sadder but wiser. When he was asked this question for the first time, he shouted 'NO!' on top of his lungs, and his own voice reflected from the walls and the dome almost killed him on the spot. In 'the yelling room', as people called such cells, only the interrogator could raise his voice with impunity. Now, too, Haddahm who was standing by the wall, could shout as loud as he wanted to, but still spoke in low, suave and sinister manner. And he was very good at it.

"Get real, Mishal, what's this bravado for? You know we've got all the tools we need to make even deaf and dumb talk. Do you really want to test them on your own skin? You won't like it, trust me."

"I don't care!" The policeman whispered knowing he'd be heard.

"You're wrong," the tyrant's voice clearly indicated he was smiling ravenously. "I assure you, as soon as my assistants start working with you, you'll change your mind immediately. But it will be too late, for you will no longer be in marketable condition and we'll need you no more. We'll have to take someone else, like, your son. Do you really want him to go through this? You must have promised him to care about him, protect him, even give up your life for him. Have you? Of course you have, I know it; I'm father, too, after all. So why do you want to break your oath in this most crucial moment?"

"Let him go," Mishal asked. "Then I'll do everything you want."

"Let him go? Mishal, dear, I can't do that even if I wanted to! The People's Court of Akbarnistan sentenced him to death, so I'm just do the people's will!"

"If the people's will is law for you, General, why haven't you shot yourself yet?" al-Sulami asked mockingly. He was perfectly aware of what the dictator could do to him and his relatives, but he made a vow not to give up. _Torture is better than disgrace!_ he kept telling himself believing naively he could endure where thousands of others broke down. It was even more naive on his part to think his insult stung Haddahm to the quick. The policeman vividly imagined veins bulging on the General's forehead, his moustache sticking up, and his face turning red. He could physically feel the air in the cell becoming hot and dense, and storm clouds gathering under the dome. And he would be very surprised to find out that the dictator was standing with his arms crossed on his chest and looking at him without any anger but with barely concealed mockery as if saying _I heard much worse than that…_

"That was brave," Haddahm said finally. His voice sounded so calmly the policeman was terrified but quickly told himself it was just another acoustic illusion. "Allah is my witness, I did everything to help you avoid suffering. I think we should start with your ear. Acoustics is great here, one will be quite enough for you."

"You don't cry for ears when you lose your head!" Mishal whispered with dignity and squared his shoulders to show he feared nothing. But the very first new sound made him shiver and break into sweat, for it was very similar to a screeching of grindstone he knew since his childhood. A big and round grindstone capable of returning the former sharpness to a kitchen knife, old scissors or grand grandfather's saber…

The screeching repeated again and again. It was growing faster and louder, and soon Mishal could think only about it and about fiery rain of sparks falling on the floor. Until now Haddahm's voice and the scent of gun grease had been the most terrifying things in the room. Unlike sounds, scents didn't reflect from the walls of 'the yelling room', so al-Sulami knew exactly that an executioner armed with assault rifle was standing behind him to the right, ready to put a bullet in his head at first signal. But presently the most fearsome thing was the screeching of stone against the metal being sharpened. What was it? A dagger? A combat knife? Or the sword which would be used to chop his head off right now? In any case, it was something big, heavy and very, very sharp…

"OUCH!" he shouted when hot metal touched a lap of his ear. The retribution came instantly, and in a moment he was on his knees, wailing from an intolerable pain in his ears and twisting his arms tied behind his back.

"So, my dear Mishal, what have you decided?" Haddahm inquired when the prisoner fell silent.

"Don't…" al-Sulami pleaded, feeling the sword raised above him with every single cell of his body. Fear made him forget where he was and what these walls were capable of, or he would have easily deduced that the weapon they sharpened for so deliberately long and loudly couldn't be bigger than a penknife or the screeching would have been intolerable. In truth it was a simple blade razor, but even if Mishal knew the truth that would change nothing. He was broken. He was ready to do anything. "Please. don't… I'll do… I'll do everything you want…"

"Now you're talking business!" the dictator smiled benignly and motioned his subordinates to raise the prisoner to his feet. "So you agree to cooperate?"

"Yes… Yes…" the policeman was still dizzy and swung from side to side. He lost his bearings completely and talked and nodded in the opposite direction from Haddahm. "Yes, I agree… I agree…"

"Listen up, then. When they bring you to the square, I'll announce that I pardon all the people of your village except you."

"You will?" the policeman whispered. "And my son, too?"

"Your whole family."

"General…" the prisoner lost his breath, overwhelmed by emotions. "You… I don't know how to thank you…"

"Don't worry, Mishal, you'll know that soon. As soon as your fellow villagers are freed, you'll be taken to the gallows, and then you'll shout that you want to make an honest confession in return for their release."

"Anything, General! Anything you want!"

"I believe, you, Mishal, I really do. So, you'll tell everyone you were working for the CIA. You'll tell that they pulled the wool over your eyes with their anti-Akbarnistan propaganda. But now, when your relatives and neighbors were pardoned, you saw that all the tales of my animal cruelty were lies, and you regret deeply for having believed them and been led by the nose. Understood?"

"Understood, understood!" al-Sulami nodded hastily.

"And now he most important thing! You'll tell everyone that CIA ordered you to turn my adopted son, Fareed J'quai, against me. It's very important, Mishal! Do you understand?"

Mishal understood. A touch of razor shocked and broke him, but it was the news about parole for his family that turned him into an obedient slave. He was hungrily catching every tyrant's word, composing his future final speech on the fly and paying no heed to the jailers sniffing behind him, the scent of their arms, and a bustle of small, most probably rat's, feet coming from the window. Those who spent at least a day in an Akbarnistanian jail couldn't be amazed by jailers, arms or rats.

"So," Haddahm went on. He and his goons stood too far from the center of the room to hear approaching rustle. "You'll tell that Professor al-Rubai's message is a lie! A fake produced by the CIA which they deliberately foisted to his relatives! You'll tell that my daughter died from natural causes, and that version about my involvement is absolutely— ARGH!"

"What's wrong, General? What happened?!" Haddahm's minions grew alarmed.

"I don't know! Something bit me… Or someone… No… What's going on… It's cold… Why is it so co—" His phrase unfinished, Haddahm croaked and collapsed on the floor.

"What? What's going on?" al-Sulami kept asking, bewildered, but jailers paid no attention to him. Rudely shoving the prisoner off to the wall, they ran up to the dictator spread-eagled on the floor. He didn't respond to words or shaking, and the two men lifted him up and carried him out, yelling: "Alarm! We need a doctor! Quickly!" Completely alone, Mishal sat without motion for some time, recovering from stomping and shouting, then slowly got up and reached the door, groping at the wall with his elbow. Haddahm's men left the door opened, but Mishal was afraid of exiting through it for obvious reasons.

"Hey! Anybody!" he called into the void. Nobody heard him, even he himself; his long stay in 'the yelling room' took its toll. He cleared his throat and repeated as loud as he could. "Anybody here? What's going on?"

"Hey, you!" the answer came from behind the door. "Go back! Back!"

"Sure, sure!" Mishal stepped back. "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I can't see anything… What's going on? What happened to the General?"

"Shut up!" the invisible jailer shouted, his strained voice indicating he was on the verge of hysteria. "I told you to go away from the door!"

"But I did—"

"One more word and I'll shoot!" the jailer came closer. "Go back! To the wall!"

The policeman obeyed.

"Don't move!" the jailer warned, and Mishal heard massive door hinges squeaking.

"No! Don't!" he begged. "Don't close it! I'll be quiet, I swear! Please!"

"Shut up or I'll shoot you!" the jailer racked his standard-issue handgun to add weight to his words. "And no tricks or—" He didn't have time to finish his threat. A door slammed in the distance, and the corridor behind him grew filled with shouting, stomping of feet and clanking of unhinged locks.

"HEY!" the jailer squalled. "WHAT'S GOING ON?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU CAN'T GO HERE!"

"We can now!" the answer came. "Haddahm's no more! It's over! Drop your weapon!"

The blindfold didn't allow Mishal to see what the jailer did, but the visitors obviously didn't like it. Several shots were fired. The policeman fell down on the floor, pressed his back to the wall and lay without movement until he was found.

"Hey! You alive?" a stranger asked shaking his shoulder.

"I am, I am… Don't kill me! I'm not with him! I saw nothing! I know nothing!"

"Don't worry, we won't kill you! Get up! What's your name?"

"Mishal. Mishal al-Sulami. I—"

"MISHAL?!" Someone shouted from the corridor and another man stormed into the cell. Tearing the blindfold off the policeman's face, he embraced him heartily. "Mishal, thank Allah! We found you!"

Mishal recognized the voice. "Abdul?" he asked, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Is it you, neighbor?"

"It's me!" Abdul grinned. "Come on! Oh, wait, I'll untie you!"

"What's going on, Abdul? What's with the General? Is he alright?"

"He's completely alright! He's dead!"

"Dead?" al-Sulami froze. "How could he be dead? He was here a minute ago… How could it be… No, no, it can't be…"

"Mishal?" Abdul looked at him worriedly. "What do you mean? Al-Meisei is dead! Dead, do you understand? Celebrate!"

"Celebrate?!" Mishal shouted. "What's there to celebrate? He promised to pardon our entire village! My entire family! And now they'll be executed, you see?! They all will be hanged!"

"Get real, Mishal!" Abdul shook him rudely by his shoulders. "What execution?! Haddahm is no more! There will be no execution! No execution, Mishal! We are free! We are all free!"

"Free…" the policeman repeated. "Free… So my son is free, too…"

"They are all free!" Abdul confirmed.

"Where are they? Did you see them?"

"With the others, releasing the prisoners!"

"What about the guards?"

"They are with us! Not all, but that can be fixed," Abdul gestured at the body sprawled on the threshold.

"I see…" al-Sulami gulped nervously but then brightened again. "We are free, you say? We are all free?"

"Yes, Mishal! All of us! Every single one!"

"Allahu Akbar! And Minister J'quai? Did you find him?"

"We will!" Abdul promised him. "We sure will! Come on, let's look for him together!"

Abdul told him the truth. Although the high-ranked jailers fought back until the last bullet, they were unable to change anything. Along with Haddahm a single black will tying the people and the system vanished, and the jailers who just yesterday maltreated the prisoners opened the cells themselves and fraternized with their dwellers. They also led Abdul, Mishal and others to the deepest nooks and crannies of the prison which weren't marked on any map, and in one of those, far from warmth and daylight, Fareed and Parahk J'quai were languishing.

"They came after us, Daddy?" the girl asked pointing at the shadows dancing in the corridor.

"No, it's too early," her father objected, alarmed, as he listened to a hum of voices.

"I'm scared, Daddy…"

"Don't be," Fareed embraced his daughter and pressed his chin, prickly with three-day scrub, to her head. "I'm with you."

"I love you, Daddy!"

"I love you too, Pari!"

The girl wanted to say something else, but the grate sealing the entrance to their cell began lifting, and she screamed and closed her eyes tight. Fareed pressed her tighter to himself and turned to face the newcomers. But instead of the usual pair of guards with assault rifles a whole crowd flocked into the cell. Some of them were carrying weapons, but only one of them was wearing a uniform.

_What my stepfather came up with now?_ Fareed wondered. _Another devious plan? Provocation? Or he decided that the noose is too easy way for me to die, and decided to have the crowd tear us to pieces…?_

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked in husky voice covering his daughter with his own body.

"Minister J'quai!" a man stepped out from the crowd. "It's me, Mishal al-Sulami! The policeman from Al-Akshat! Do you remember?"

"I do," Fareed acknowledged warily. "What are you doing here? They released you?"

"They released us all!" Abdul answered instead of Mishal. "You are released, too, Minister, that is, Supreme Ruler J'quai!"

"Supreme Ruler? What do you mean? I don't understand—"

"Your stepfather is dead, Sayyid J'quai! You are our ruler now!"

"My stepfather… dead?" Fareed had to perch against the wall with his hand in order not to collapse. "But wait, how… Are you sure? Is he really dead? Is it really him who is dead?"

"It's him this time!" al-Sulami confirmed. "Long live Supreme Ruler J'quai! Takbir!"

"ALLAHU AKBAR!" everybody shouted, shaking their fists, iron rods, and occasional trophy assault rifle.

"Allahu Akbar!" Fareed repeated patting his eyes with a back of his hand.

"What happened, Daddy?" Parahk asked. "Something bad?"

"No, Pari, quite the contrary!" the minister picked his daughter up and kissed. "Come on, darling! I'll show you…" he stuttered, overwhelmed by emotions. "I'll show you free Akbarnistan!"


	9. Chapter 8 Dreams and Monsters

**Chapter 8**

**Dreams and Monsters**

* 37 *

_Day Third, morning—noon_

"May I, Sayyid Chairman?" A guttural voice with distinctive huskiness distracted Fareed from his trip down the memory lane.

"Come in, Abdullah," Fareed allowed without looking away from the window. He knew the voice belonged to a frowny hazel-eyed man with thick gray-dappled moustache.

Abdullah ibn Said al-Khasib, chief of security and head of National Intelligence Service of Akbarnistan, quickly joined his superior and looked in the same direction. The day was dying, and the remains of the helicopter, covered with fire foam and resembling some crooked grin, cast long frayed shadows onto the burned-out landing field. "Two more guardsmen died."

"I was told," J'quai answered in a dry manner uncharacteristic for him. Previously uncharacteristic. Composing condolences to families and relatives of the nine perished people couldn't leave no trace. And he hadn't even started composing the most painful condolence letter of all…

"How does Pari feel?"

"She's still asleep. It's alright, it will do her good."

"Does she know?"

"I haven't told her yet but I think she does. She's very sensitive. You can't hide much from her…"

…Upon ascending the ramp, Parahk realized she forgot to take along the latest novel about the bespectacled wizard boy whose adventures she and millions of her peers became addicted to as soon as these books appeared in Akbarnistan. She vehemently disagreed to fly to Bassorah without it and returned to the palace, so she wasn't in the helicopter when it exploded.

But Ravan was…

"I never told her, Abdullah. I had never told her…"

"I dare to suggest she knew, Sayyid Chairman."

Fareed looked away to hide his tears but his glance immediately fell onto the sheets paper scattered about his table with outlines of the letter to Ravan's parents, and he decided that the view behind the window was better. At least, everything ended there already… "What did you find out?"

"Almost everything. The time bomb near the fuel tank. The timing was precisely calculated. If it hadn't been for the call from Washington, you would have been in the air when the bomb went off. Allah protects you, Chairman, there's no doubt about it!"

There was no doubt, indeed, for it was the third such incident already. First during Fareed's visit to Al-Bakr a sniper perched on a roof took a shot at the head of Akbarnistan, but a gust of wind moved the bullet which killed not him but his bodyguard standing next to the pulpit. Then a remote-controlled bomb was detonated next to the Chairman's motorcade. The explosion hit the escort vehicle, but had the bomb gone off a second earlier, when Fareed's limousine was passing by… Of course, mention of Allah in this context by the head of intelligence service seemed like his confession of being incompetent, but only if you forgot about dozens of assassination attempts his subordinates had averted at the earliest stages…

"Who did that?"

"An airbase technician. In the morning he was preparing the helicopter along with the others, and he was responsible for checking the fuel tanks. Then, when the helicopter departed, he asked for leave. Said his son was very sick and he needed to buy medicine… He never came home, and his son turned to be alright. We are searching for him, but I think he is in Patak already."

Fareed showed no visible reaction at this name, but his heart seemed to be electrocuted. For modern Akbarnistan a chain of parallel mountain ranges running along its Eastern border was like Mexico for the United States — an uncontrolled cross-border region where both ordinary criminals and people seeking to topple the young democracy and restore the old ways fled from justice. They could be considered harmless losers whose time was past retrieve, if it weren't for a man who organized and led them. His boundless hatred towards Fareed and incontestable authority among his followers allowed no hope for his replacement with someone less radical. On the other hand, less radical people didn't stay long in his camp, for he fought dissent among his followers as diligently as he had suppressed sedition in his Fifth Army Corps.

Yes, it was him, former Major General Abdulmujib al-Zubayri, Haddahm's attack wolf-dog. Not giving a darn about official relegation and death sentence in absentia, he proclaimed himself Commander-in-Chief of Armed Forces of Republic of Akbarnistan in exile and declared a holy war against 'anticonstitutional puppet regime of a parricide who sold himself to infidels', as he always called Fareed in his poignant speeches and accusatory leaflets scatterings of which were regularly discovered in border towns. Al-Zubayri was put on the international wanted list as a war criminal, and the Akbarnistanian government set a huge price on him being brought to them. But the Western ridges of Patak Mountains were one of those places where the hand of Akbarnistanian, American or European justice could never reach…

"Any clues?"

"No. Yet. But we have his family, and it's a huge—"

Fareed shook and looked at the second man for the first time during their conversation. "No. Don't touch the family."

"In what sense?" Al-Khasib asked to make sure.

"In literal. Let them go."

"But Sayyid Chairman—"

"Stop hiding behind officiality, Abdullah!" J'quai shouted. "We're relatives, don't forget that!"

"I remember, Fareed. That's exactly why—"

"No, you remember nothing! If you did, you'd never boast about us 'having his family'!"

"But it's different!"

"No, Abdullah! This is it! The very thing Mahmud fought against! Tell me, did you like sitting in prison waiting to be executed for your brother's deeds?"

The chief of security was insulted by these words. "I was and I am proud of my brother! He did like a true warrior!"

"You want to say my stepfather was right to sentence you, your wife and your children to public hanging?"

Abdullah looked at Fareed with alarm. "You are saying strange things, Fareed."

"You are right!" J'quai turned to the window again. "You'd never have heard it in old Akbarnistan, and surely not from the head of the state! We got used to not only the guilty man being punished for his crime, but his whole family…"

"That's not just about relationships, Fareed! These people think you are a murderer and an usurper! They are your enemies!"

"No, they are not! They are the victims of lying propaganda!"

"Not a big difference…"

"Big! Very big! In contrast to al-Zubayri, they can be convinced otherwise!"

"How? They don't understand words!"

"But they will understand deeds! If we show them that we don't punish families like Haddahm did, they'll know they are being told lies and become our supporters! Our avid supporters, Abdullah! And their example will, in turn, persuade others!"

Al-Khasib's voice was full of skepticism. "Fareed, do you really believe it?"

J'quai looked straight into his eyes. "I do. Maybe it will take some time, but it will happen. Our mission is to convince people that tyranny and terror are long gone and will never come back. There's no other way."

"There is," Abdullah objected. "Eliminate al-Zubayri."

"How? By invading Ayran? They won't give him to us on their own…"

…No matter how you felt about al-Zubayri, he was a great strategist. There was a reason why Haddahm was truly amazed by his offensive operations which was very hard to achieve. His stepback— not retreat, but stepback — was planned and thought out very carefully and used the turmoil following Haddahm's death as a cover to hide in the last place where he would be — and was indeed — looked for.

Inside Ayran's territory.

There was nothing wrong about this phrase; moreover, it was the only correct one. One of the heroes of Ayran-Akbarnistan War who generously used chemical weapons against both enemy's regular army and civilian population could do nothing in Ayran as a whole but commit a 'bitter suicide' in presence of angry mob accidentally passing by. But in the mountains, in remote and sparsely inhabited regions where it was so easy to hide from pursuers and even easier to stay unnoticed… In other words, by the time the general's location was determined to a precision of a thousand square kilometers, he and his followers had entrenched so deeply that only a full-scale combined arms operation using artillery and aviation could help.

But despite having all the needed resources, Ayranian government was in no haste at all to do it.

No, they had no warm feelings towards the refugees. On the contrary, they constantly reminded their citizens and one another that this 'bloody junta' must be dealt with as soon as possible, sparing no ammo or pains. But without direct and unambiguous orders to the Army it was nothing but milling the wind, and doubling of the number of border outposts and frequency of patrol aircrafts' flights was only cosmetic change despite looking impressively on paper.

No wonder that speeches of all major politicians capable of attempting to win the nearest presidential election had a separate article about fighting 'the General al-Zubayri's clique'. The acting president and representatives of the parliament majority condemned the opposition of obstructing justice and political speculations about matters of state importance, while the opposition responded with accusations of lack of desire to solve the vexed problem or even direct collusion with 'villainous expatriants'. It was clear that closer to the elections this question would arise more and more frequently, and the side which played this trump better than the opponents would emerge victorious.

Which, by the way, didn't mean that al-Zubayri would become a real target afterwards. No thoughtful master ever kills a hen laying golden eggs, and no prudent politician ever completely solves a problem which brings so much political profit.

Al-Zubayri was positively a genius. Only genius could make himself a subject of election promises thus becoming virtually untouchable.

Ayran's religious leadership had their religious reasons to nourish and cherish their 'dear enemy'. Ayranians practiced Islam in Shiite tradition, while in Haddahm's time all important government positions were occupied by the Sunnis. Al-Zubayri and his followers were the Sunnis, too, which seemed to be another weighty argument for immediate total clearing operation since the Sunnis and the Shiites hated each other even more than the practitioners of other confessions.

But with Fareed coming to power in Akbarnistan everything changed. Ayranian government and state media never stopped repeating that the CIA was behind Haddahm's death, and Fareed J'quai was no less than 'the viceroy of the Empire of Evil' as the President of Ayran personally, frequently and publicly called the United States. Since large problems always start small, this weak sprout of the Western influence in the region had to be uprooted before it was too late. And there was no better uprooter than al-Zubayri. Not because he was a fanatic, although it was important, too. First of all, he was a brave and practical man who had no links at all with the government of Ayran he genuinely hated. But he had many connections on 'the occupied territory', even, as the latest events proved, among the people directly responsible for the maintenance of Chairman J'quai's personal helicopter…

"That won't be needed."

Fareed looked at his security chief with unveiled suspicion. "I have a feeling you've got a plan I won't like."

"Exactly. That's why I won't tell you about it but I'll ask for your permission to act."

"Abdullah, you know that—"

"I know, Fareed, you've always been against any violence. But it's no time for sentiments!"

J'quai turned to the window again. _It's no time for sentiments…_ His thoughts exactly when he was preparing the attempt on his stepfather's life. He sincerely sympathized with Selim Jarraqi, but felt no pity for him; the pilot was a volunteer and knew what was in store for him. Like Mahmud, he was a soldier who followed the call of duty and deserved not pity but respect.

Unlike Aunt Fatima, the General's last wife.

Fareed was ashamed to acknowledge he hadn't even thought about her at the time. He simply forgot that she existed and the explosion would likely kill her, too. But it was even more painful to realize that even if he had remembered about her, he would have still carried out his and Macmillan's plan. That's why upon becoming the head of the state he promised himself to apply force in extreme circumstances only and only in accordance with international laws.

"Abdullah, you ask me to do the impossible—"

"No, Fareed! I ask you to do the necessary! Trust me, like my brother trusted you! I ask of you much less than you asked of him!"

"You're talking about authorizing the retaliation strike or whatever you call that thing?"

"The fitting response," Abdullah corrected him.

"And what does that mean?"

"Only that al-Zubayri is a monster that must be dealt with once and for all! He'll stop at nothing to kill you, and he's getting closer! If you die, it will be the end for everything! Just say 'yes' and my people will do the rest! Allow us to act, Fareed! If not for you, then for Pari's sake who miraculously escaped death today! And they knew she'll be on board, they must have! Are you listening, Fareed?"

"I am, Abdullah," J'quai said barely audibly, while listening to another voice…

"_What happened, Daddy? Something bad?"_

"_No, Pari, quite the contrary! Come on, darling! I'll show you free Akbarnistan!..."_

"...Fareed! Fareed! Do you hear me? Fareed!"

"Alright, Abdullah."

"Alright what? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand perfectly. I'll give you my approval. But promise me there will be no unnecessary victims."

Abdullah smiled for the first time during their conversation. "There will be none, Fareed! I thought it over! I swear you won't regret your decision!"

"I know. You never failed me. Do your job. But don't mention me, if possible, agreed?"

"Sure, Fareed! Don't worry, your image of a Nobel Peace Prize winner won't be hurt!"

Turning around on his heels, the chief of security and intelligence left the room. J'quai didn't let him out and stayed by the window instead looking into dusky skies and trying to imagine the reaction of his European and American colleagues who during their meetings insisted on necessity to find compromise and abstain from applying force. But at the same time they coyly failed to mention methods and means they themselves used to combat their insurgents like IRA, OAS, RAF, ETA or Black Panthers. So by authorizing 'the fitting response' Fareed actually acted not in contradiction to but in strict adherence to the laws of the civilized world. And in that case there was nothing to worry about.

Well, almost…

Casting his final glance at the helicopter wreckage, the Chairman of the Council of Ministers of Akbarnistan returned to his desk and turned his voice recorder on. He had made Ravan wait for an inexcusably long time already.

* 38 *

Branson woke up exactly two seconds before the target time and one second before Rustin Parr entered the room carrying coffee and doughnuts on a single-use plastic tray. The mustached man was pale and tired, but as buoyant as before.

"Good morning, sir!" He greeted his superior as he put his tray down on the table and took the lid off the plastic cup. "I dared to make black coffee for you. Hope you have no objections?"

"Agent Parr, you're my savior!" Trevor sat up and massaged his temples. "Is there any chance that you have some aspirin, too? My head's splitting as if Astaire tap-danced on it through the night…"

"I can imagine that!" Rustin took a white pill bottle out of his pocket. "You were on the run since the act of terror, weren't you?"

"Even longer," Branson poured out three pills on his palm but before he could put them into his mouth Parr jumped up to him and grabbed him by his hand. "TREVOR, DON'T!"

"What's wrong?" the surprised agent looked at his colleague's face distorted with terror.

"It's not aspirin I gave you!"

Branson looked down on the bottle clenched in his left hand. He opened it instinctively, without looking, but now he saw there was not the name of the popular painkiller but that of a strong soporific on its lid and label.

"Wow…" he muttered. "That would be quite a healing…"

"Oh my gosh, sir, I'm sorry!" Parr was trembling. "I hope you haven't taken it yet?"

"No, I haven't. But now I'm considering taking one to calm down at least a little!"

Realizing his superior was intentionally reducing everything to a joke and wasn't angry at him, Rustin breathed a sigh of relief and smiled so widely it made sweat drip from his moustache. "Yeah, that would have been a nice start of the day… I always carry two bottles with me," he showed Trevor the second similar bottle, this time containing aspirin. "One for the morning, second for the evening whenever it is. Had to really force myself to sleep lately…"

"That's not good!" Branson grew serious. "First you take sleeping pills to sleep when you don't want to, then you take them to sleep when you want to, and finally you can't even blink without them. I had those issues myself. So drop it before it's too late and tell me the latest news instead."

Rustin gritted his teeth audibly. The last few hours made him hate the news in all its forms. The main topic, of course, were the murders of Blather and Jefferson, because of which logos of all TV stations were hastily redone in mourning fashion and the reporters and hosts spoke lower and slower than usual. Which didn't affect the volume of information provided to the audience, though. In the course of the night viewers, listeners and readers were told detailed biographies of the departed, heard their relatives', friends' and colleagues' recollections about them, and also learned a lot of new colorful epithets which the media workers used as soon as they mentioned the organizers of 'the bloody hunt for the knights of the air' and 'cynic hounding of uncompromising truth-seekers'. There were three main candidates for the role of 'free speech executioners': the Black Table, the CIA and 'some other dark force' the existence of which all the commentators allowed in theory but only for the sake of encompassing all the variants in order to have the right in the future to proclaim: 'See? I said it was inconclusive from the start!'…

"Does anyone blame the President of Ukraine?" Branson asked on the fly.

"Whom?" Parr asked. Hiding on the ledge of window shutters, Foxglove almost revealed herself with a triumphant dance.

"Just checking…" Trevor shrugged. "Some weird dream, I think… Forget it."

"Oh, don't mention it! I think I'll start dreaming of that captured ship soon, too!"

"Ship? Oh, you mean Naina. Yes, an unpleasant story… What about them, by the way?"

"Last I heard they agreed on the ransom."

"They did? Oh, and I hoped they would be wise enough not to give millions to terrorists. And what is the so-called international community thinking? I don't know either… By the way, how do they react to Blather's death?"

"International community? As usual, send their condolences. And not to us alone."

"Somebody feels as bad as we do?"

"Yes, Akbarnistanians. Someone tried to kill their President."

"Chairman," Trevor corrected him absentmindedly falling deep in thought at these words. Another subject of Stan Blather's program became a target of the assassins, and on the very same day… Coincidence? Could be, but it really looked like a systematic removal of witnesses… "And how is he?"

"Unharmed as far as I know."

"Good for him. Anything else on Blather?" Branson asked, but Parr could tell nothing more of interest. None of the sides 'interested in the death of the heroic reporter' showed any interest in commenting on the accusations, and the previous hour was devoted to retelling the whole story to 'those who joined us only now' and discussing the same issues over and over with other guests of the studios. Occasionally the live reports with 'No Comments' tagline were aired showing streets in front of WBC local branches' buildings where mourning crowds were gathering carrying flowers and lit candles, and the advertisement blocks were replaced with sessions of silence during which photographs of Jefferson and snapshots of Stan's last reports were shown in sequence.

"So nobody doubts Blather's death?" Trevor asked when Parr finished the morning press review.

Rustin grew wary. "Should they?"

"They shouldn't, but they could." Although only a chosen few should know the truth about Blather, Branson decided that the deputy head of the New York field office supervising all the activity in the city must be told. "To tell the truth, Stan Blather didn't die. We hid him to deceive the criminals. Of course, none of your colleagues can know it. Nobody can be trusted."

"I see…" Rustin scratched the scrub on his chin. "Well, it's the right way, I think… But what if I have to tell some of the boys?"

"Check with me first. What about my instructions?"

"Jefferson's voice recorder sent to Washington by special delivery."

"Did you listen to the recordings?"

"No, you ordered to seal it and—"

"Yes, I remember that. But there is one conversation the recording of which will be very useful when you speak with the WBC bosses. I'll arrange for the copy to be sent to you," Branson got up, went to the small cabinet and reached for his smartphone, but his hand froze in mid air. "Rustin, did anyone go in here while I was sleeping?"

"Actually, they shouldn't have," Parr became worried again. "Something's missing? Something's wrong with your phone?"

"No, everything's okay," Trevor examined his smartphone carefully. "Aside from the fact that it's turned off, and I can swear I left it switched on…"

He muttered the last words under his breath, but Foxglove heard everything and almost cried out. She had to turn the phone off because this model didn't support 'hot' removal of memory cards. She didn't know PIN, so she didn't turn it back on hoping Branson wouldn't be very attentive in the morning. And it looked like she had made a huge mistake…

"Is something wrong?" Rustin went on, fully assuming the role of hospitable host who fully shared the problems of his guests. "I can gather everyone and—"

"No-no, don't bother," Trevor switched the phone on, made sure it was working and decided he had switched it off himself while preparing to go to sleep. A mediocre explanation, but rational and much more preferable than the true one with respect to the consequences to his mental health. "Go on."

"By noon we'll have all the materials of the police investigation. My men are working at the crime scene and in the TV studio. We were going to visit the WBC head office in an hour, but if you say that we need the recording—"

"Go without it first, let them tell you a pack of lies. They'll become much more cooperative later. Did you call Bio-Tech?"

"Yes. They said Doctor Wasserman will come around ten."

"Perfect, I'll have time to shave. Hope you won't mind if I go there with you?"

"As for me, I won't mind at all!" Parr answered jolly and slapped the sofa. "I'll be asleep! This is our so-called 'hot bed', and it's mine till noon."

"You should have said it earlier!" Branson hastily got up and started putting his shirt on. "Looks like I stole almost an hour from you!"

"I'll put it on your bill."

"Yeah, you do it, right after coffee and doughnuts! The doughnuts were great, by the way!"

"They were from the cafe on the ground floor. That's the only thing that keeps us hanging on!" Without waiting for Trevor to leave, Parr laid his clothes off and lay on the sofa. "Agent Parkinson will go to Bio-Tech, so if you want to come along, talk to him."

"Understood. Good night! And don't overdo the sleeping pills!"

"I'll try," Parr promised, sending two pills at once into his mouth. "I'll start tomorrow."

"Deal!" Branson nodded and left without expatiating upon such excuses never ending in anything good. He didn't know Rustin well enough to push him around. It was his life, after all, and there were more important tasks at hand… As he crossed the threshold of the lounge room, he chose the needed number from his phonebook and the subscriber responded faster than Trevor reached the elevator.

"Johnny? Hello! You woke up or didn't sleep at all?"

"Thanks, yes," Blunt muttered, without anger but in a business-like tone which meant he was capable of taking a nap.

"In that case let me congratulate you with your appointment as the first assistant of the head of investigation group for the Blather case!"

"You woke me up to tell me what I guessed long ago?"

"Not just that. How's Gyllenhaal?"

"Gyllenhaal? I'm sure he's OK. Probably asleep like all the white people."

Trevor laughed. "Don't worry, my paleface friend, our day of rest will come soon!"

"You call implies that I'll be working overtime on this day. What happened to you again?"

"Not to me, but to Akbarnistan," Branson pressed the button labeled 'Garage, Lvl 1'. "Someone tried to kill Chairman J'quai."

"J'quai? The one who was with Logan? Who, how, when?"

"That's what you need to find out."

"Don't hang up then, I'll switch the TV on."

"First, the TV alone is not enough—"

"Okay, I'll turn both on."

"Second, that's not the most important thing. Do you remember what happened in Ukraine in 2001?"

"No. What?"

"Something connected to our case." Although Trevor was alone in the elevator, there were probably microphones installed by the building security, so he didn't elaborate. How and if the security reacted to his words remained unknown, but Foxglove hiding on the roof of the elevator understood everything.

"How do you know? Traumatic revelation?"

_Good question, by the way…_

"Trev! Hello! Trev!"

"Yes, yes, I'm here…" Branson rubbed his forehead and noticed he had no headache at all. Rustin had some really good aspirin, with a real kick… Well, it was nice, but what could he tell Blunt? 'I got tired, lay on the sofa, fell asleep, woke up, and here's the thought?'

"Trev! Are you still there? Trev!"

"Do you believe in prophetic dreams, Johnny?"

"What? Again?!"

"Oh, come on! And, by the way, the Nationals really won that time!"

"Well, yes, but in a different game—"

"That's statistically insignificant."

"If five hundred bucks are statistically insignificant for you, I'm happy for you…"

A warning signal rang and elevator doors slid to the sides letting its passengers into an underground garage.

"Enough of that, let bygones be bygones." Having made sure there were no other people in the garage, Trevor proceeded to the main topic. "Apparently, there was some big scandal in Ukraine in 2001 due to some journalist murdered. Find everything you can about it."

Flying quietly above him, Foxglove was so happy she almost hit a ceiling lamp.

Blunt sighed heavily. "And as always it's needed by yesterday, right?"

"You knew! And here are tasks for today. First, a package from New York should have arrived on the name of Gyllenhaal. Jefferson's voice recorder. Yes, that Jefferson. It contains a recording of his conversation with the WBC vice-president. It's very enlightening. Send a copy of it to New York, to Special Agent Rustin Parr. He should receive it by noon."

"New York time or Moscow time?"

"Stop sneering and listen. There is another recording which must be carefully extracted and sent to the experts. They can do whatever they want with it, up to taking it to separate sounds, but they must find out whose voice it is. And they must do it fast!"

"Sure thing! Just tell me its number in sequence so that I wouldn't confuse it with others."

"You won't confuse it. Next. In two hours they will deliver you a photograph. Take it to Marjorie Jackson, address—"

"Trev, I know who Marjorie Jackson is and where she lives."

"You do? Oh, yeah, right, I got really worked up… She said she gave this photograph yesterday to a pair of CIA agents. Obtain their portraits. But please, tread very delicately."

"No need to remind it, that won't be the first time."

"I know. Run the portraits through everything. Point number next: get the list of the reporters accredited to the Peace Ceremony."

"What for?"

"To make sure they are alright."

"Another prophetic dream?"

"No, this time it's pure intuition."

"Like always. He's got intuition, and I must dig the ground… Anything else?"

Branson laughed. "You'll be sorry you asked!"

"I'm already sorry, spill it out."

"Gather dossiers of everyone with access to the Snow, Ferrante and Macmillan case."

"Wh-what?!" Blunt choked ostensibly loudly. "But there are—"

"Ask Gyllenhaal to get you access."

"Access is one thing, but there are probably no less than a hundred of people!"

"You can exclude all Davids and start with natives of the Midwest."

"Well, that's some start…"

"It is. Oh, and as soon as you have a minute to spare, please arrange us meetings with Gordon Brightman and Eliot Pryce. Say, in the afternoon."

Foxglove didn't recognize these names but Blunt surely did. "How about some Hollywood stars?" he asked.

"Not today. Will you do it?"

"Why do you want to arrange it beforehand? Sudden visits are always more effective."

"That will prevent them from pretending they are busy and make us wait in the lobby. And also officiality and politeness are always disarming."

"And confusing."

"Exactly! Okay, I won't be holding you anymore, it seems to me you've got a lot to do… Oh, out of friendship, are there any free helicopters? I'm afraid another similar race in one day will be too much for me…"

"Ma'am, give me some water, for I'm so hungry that I've got nowhere to stay overnight. Alright, rascal, I'll pull some strings to get you some air support. Where should the carriage wait for you?"

"La Guardia."

"Okay, La Guardia then. I hope you didn't lose my mackintosh? It has sentimental value to me, you know!"

"Because I wore it? I'm flattered!"

"No, because it reminds me of those happy times when I could sleep at least five hours a day, and which ended as soon as I gave it to you. Okay, I need to run, for my boss flew off the handle and piled so much work onto me it's hard to breathe!" Blunt said and hung up before he could hear Trevor laughing.

The agent, invigorated after four hours sleep, simple breakfast and conversation with his friend, shook his hands to warm up his elbows and shoulders and dialed another number.

"Hello, who's this?"

"Howard? It's Trevor Branson, remember me?"

"Oh, Mister Branson!" Sudden change of voice indicated that tired Salinger instantly drew himself together and straightened his stooped shoulders. "I forgot I gave you my number! I'm listening, sir!"

"At ease, agent. As far as I understand, you worked hard for the past four hours. Found anything?"

"Yes. As you asked, I called Coolidge and Berg. They promised to handle everything over before dinner."

"Alright, go on."

"About the press. In short, we found out how they knew about Blather."

"So fast?"

"Yes. We asked the reporters and found that one streetwise guy came to the hospital much earlier than his other colleagues, just half an hour after Blather fell from the bridge."

"Speedy!"

"Very! So we took him in hand. Turns out, his friend works in the Prosecutors Office security, near which Blather was fished out. And he told him. Not for free, of course, but for a sizable sum, but the reporter agreed immediately."

_Of course he did! _Trevor chuckled. _Such an advantage over your competitors is more precious than any money—_

_Wait a minute…_

"I'm sorry, Howard, where was Blather fished out, you said? Near the Prosecutors Office? I thought they found him in Lincoln Park…"

"Well, yes, in Lincoln Park, near the Hudson County Prosecutors Office. It's not far from there, almost by the river…"

_Coincidence?_

"Agent Branson? Sir?"

"Howard, have you found the car?"

"Not yet, but—"

"Have you looked around the Prosecutors Office?"

"Around the Prosecutors Office? No, of course not! How could it end up there?"

"Look there! Is there a parking lot?"

"Sure, there is, but—"

"Start there then! If it's not there, check nearby streets, rummage through the park…"

"You think—"

"I don't think! And you don't think! Act! Search! And don't forget about Blather's files!"

"Done."

"What's done?"

"We checked them already."

"Really?" Trevor checked his watch to be sure, allowing Foxglove to stay unseen as she fluttered onto the lamp right above him. "I didn't know courts work so early in Newark…"

"They don't, sir. Remember I mentioned my friend to you…"

Branson broke into a cold sweat. "Are you serious? I forbade you!"

"Yes, sir, but I thought—"

"You thought wrong! Accusations of unlawful evidence gathering is the last thing we need now!"

"But, sir, no one will know—"

"Alright, quiet! We'll discuss it later!" Trevor ordered. He was enraged but he knew it couldn't be undone and if the information was obtained you should use it to sit on the felon's dock for a reason. "What's about the files?"

"Mystery, sir."

"Mystery?"

"Yes. The file exchange server's logs show that someone copied the file with the key yesterday!"

"Did you track this 'someone' down?"

"That's the point, sir! Apparently, he used Blather's home PC!"

Trevor leant on a conveniently placed column with his shoulder and loosened his tie. Foxglove knew who they were talking about and gulped.

"Wait a minute… But it's impossible! The house was empty!"

"That's what I'm talking about, sir!"

"Are you sure? Can it be a mistake?"

"We checked everything three times!"

"Okay, I got it…" Branson pressed his back to the wall to be on the safe side. "So that's where those 'bugs' came from…"

_Great! He remembered the 'bugs', too!_ The Rescue Ranger triumphed.

By contrast, Salinger was completely dumbfounded. "What bugs?"

"What?"

"Sir, you mentioned some bugs. What did you mean?"

"I have no idea," Trevor answered sincerely. "Have you received the materials from the Maplewood PD?"

"As far as I know, the Bureau took them, and they—"

"Before dinner, I remember. Well, looks like we've got an extra reason to visit Blather's hometown."

"I think he's from somewhere in Massachusetts—"

"You know what I mean. I'll pick you up around noon."

"Actually, I am about to go home…"

"Great, I'll pick you up at home. Spruce yourself up and change your shirt. I'll call you before leaving. See you later!" Branson hung up before Howard could object and sighed in disaffection. Why are these youths so light-minded? It takes some special talent to tell your boss 'I am about to go home…' And that's after Trevor's assistance with his personal life…

It took Branson some effort to find his unshowy Marauder in an almost empty but very spacious parking lot. In the car, he took out a black leather travel bag with electric shaver and cologne from the glove compartment. He plugged the shaver into a cigarette lighter socket, shaved carefully in front of the rear mirror and grazed his face with fragrant skin-soothing liquid. It would be good to change as well, but that had to wait till his visit to Salinger. On his previous position Trevor always carried a whole set of change clothes in his car, but he had mostly commanded others than running around himself as of late, and slowly lost this habit. As it turned out, that wasn't a right thing to do.

Back in the Secret Service office, Branson had to ask directions a few times to find the room he needed. It was locked but as soon as Trevor leant against the doorframe a thin man with carrot-red hair appeared from around the corner. "Are you looking for me?" he asked, pointing at the door.

"If you are Special Agent Edward Parkinson, then I am," Trevor answered, checking with the letters on the gray dull glass. "Trevor Branson, Deputy Head of the Presidential Protection. I heard you are going to Bio-Tech…"

Parkinson smiled and extended his hand. "And you must be coming with me? Well, I've never had such a high-ranking passenger before!"

"There's always the first time, I guess."

"Right you are! Well, we'll be off as soon as my partner finishes his breakfast!"

"I'll be very much obliged if you urge him on. I must be in Newark by noon."

"I see…" the red-haired agent squeezed his lower lip between his fingers. "Looks like Tom will have to finish eating in the car, then. I'll be right back. Can you wait?"

"Sure, go… Oh, wait, does your computer have Internet access? I need to surf for a couple of minutes…"

"Be my guest!" Parkinson unlocked the room and led his guest to his workplace. The computer was in sleeping mode and started up in less than a minute.

"Don't worry, I know the rules and won't spend much traffic," Branson launched the browser and began constructing his search query. "Didn't you need to go somewhere?"

Edward took the hint and left. As soon as Trevor was alone, he launched the mail client on his smartphone and was very glad to find two messages waiting in his service mailbox. They contained nothing but two long sequences of digits and letters, meaningless on their own. But if you went to the secret server accessible from service computers only and entered those sequences into a special window, you could find out many new and interesting things. For instance, agents Dahlstrom and Henderson successfully completed their mission of moving the needed people to the needed place. No names or addresses, only code designations which had to be mentioned so that some other group wouldn't decide to move their clients to the occupied asylum.

Well, one sore question was closed.

Back at the home page, Trevor entered 'Ukraine+2001+journalist+murder' into the search field and instantly received a bunch of links to various materials from reserved analytical reviews to super emotional posts in personal blogs. There was no time to carefully sift through the information at the moment, so he, like Chip before him, chose the shortest part; thankfully, the link to the needed Wikipedia article was found on the second page. In order not to waste any time, Branson sent all the needed material to print and quickly cleaned up the browsing history. He wasn't a computer guru, but knew the rules of working at someone else's workstation by heart.

Parkinson returned as the printer was producing the last page. "Are you ready, Trevor?"

"Coming!" Branson sent the computer back to sleep and gathered the papers knowing what he would read there beforehand.

Now he had to find out how he knew all that.

On his way to Bio-Tech Branson repeatedly shifted his gaze from Parkinson's car ahead of him to the passenger seat where he put the printout of the article about the murdered journalist and four other materials links to which he found in the text. Actually, almost every second sentence contained hyperlinks, but it took Trevor just one brief scan to single out all the needed names, dates, and terms, having strong deja vu like during his second and all further trips to Nevada divorce mill. He had positively read that already.

But at the same time he could swear he had never seen these articles before.

Bio-Tech was located in a freshly renovated five-storied building at McGuiness Boulevard on the very border between Brooklyn and Queens. Large windows of the facade overlooking the thoroughfare and narrow loopholes of the annex stretching deep into the block indicated that not only paperwork but a real research was done here, the results of which had to be kept hidden from the prying eyes. It took Bio-Tech a record-breakingly short time to become one of the leaders on the market of drugs to cure emotional disorders and metabolism problems, so they definitely had things to hide.

To Dr. Elijah Wasserman's credit, managing the restricted access facility didn't affect his hospitality at all. As soon as he was told about the arrival of the Secret Service agents, he entered the lobby, shook everyone's hands and let them into his cabinet before him. The room's small size was more than outweighed by its coziness. The furniture, including two deep soft armchairs, was perfectly blended into space without obstructing the window or a miraculously empty wall covered with Wasserman's diplomas and commendations. They instantly attracted Trevor's attention, who was impressed not as much by the sheer quantity of regalias as with the elegance of their positioning. The words 'Feng Shui' came up as if on their own, and he told their welcoming host of it.

"Thank you, Mister Branson!" the scientist bowed politely in pseudo-Japanese style. "But I know this teaching from hearsay only, so I relied purely on my own notion of harmony. And, as your words suggest, it was the right decision! Well, as they say in my historic motherland, there's no truth in the legs. Please, you're welcome to use all the chairs!"

The two agents from the New York field office accepted the invitation immediately, while Trevor asked the host's permission to remain standing and went to the corner of the room to take a closer look at the photos hanging there. Parkinson took out his voice recorder and notepad, spoke all the formal phrases and went to business. Wasserman gave detailed answers, without any hurry, repeating word for word everything he had previously told Blather. His soft voice, spade beard and plate encircled with wavy hair which turned out much lengthier than the screen showed made him look like a kind Father Mushroom. The similarity would be complete if it weren't for the ultra-modern glasses in stylish rim.

"…Basically, young men, I know nothing more," the scientist finished his latest thorough answer.

"I see," Parkinson check-marked the last question in his list. "Well, Mister Wasserman, I'm done. Of course, if Agent Branson wants…"

"I want," Trevor acknowledged turning to face the scientist. He had a question at the ready, but asked another one instead. "Do you keep bats in your lab?"

Elijah was surprised by the question. "No, we never had one! Their nervous system and genome differ too greatly from the humans' ones, so there's little sense in testing medicine on them. But why do you ask?"

"Nothing, just had a strange idea…" This time Trevor didn't run amok to the window where he thought to have seen a big-eared snout, just concluded that four hours of sleep in two days were too little. "What animals do you use?"

"White mice, lab rats, guinea pigs. Like everyone else."

"Can they be made into assassins?"

Wasserman laughed culturedly.

"What's so funny?" Parkinson's partner asked scowlingly.

Branson regarded him with a scathing look. "Please, Doctor, forgive my colleague's little intemperance. It's age-related and will pass in due course."

"No worries, I'm not offended," Elijah objected, although barely noticeable changes in his appearance clearly indicated that if it weren't for the elder agent's timely excuses, the conversation would go in an absolutely different direction. "It's just that I had already been asked this question yesterday by Mister Blather's colleagues, may he rest in peace, and you know what I answered them? I answered that if you can teach dolphins to hunt for combat divers, why can't you teach mice to hunt for presidents? You sure can!"

"In other words, you believe in Mouse Assassin Project's existence," Parkinson stated.

"You are wrong, young man! I believe it can be done, and those are two very different things. You don't need to believe that something exists, you must prove it. And it's your job, not mine!"

"You're right, Mister Wasserman," Branson agreed quickly to prevent Parkinson's partner from blurting out something impulsive. "Another question then: if you agreed to Eastern Pharmaceuticals' proposal, would you have anything to offer them? Do you have any rodents with above-average intelligence?"

Elijah smiled cannily. "I do. You want to see them?"

"Yes, please," Branson agreed warily, almost expecting Wasserman to open a drawer and take some ninja rabbit out of it. But the reality proved even more surprising for Elijah got up from his desk and led them to the secret laboratory wing where no trespassers were allowed regardless of their biological species. At least, Foxglove despite her best efforts found no way inside which, considering her abilities and the fact that Sparky regularly came here and left again, was really strange. But then the bat recalled they always put Sparky off on the roof of the administrative building and it was very easy to get inside from there. But only until a certain moment, that is until 8 AM, when the scientists returned to their workplaces and a fresh shift of security manned their posts after a good night's sleep. Now it was too dangerous to try to get inside, for the bat had almost no chances to stay undetected and if people noticed her, she would be chased by the entire facility. So she simply returned to the Wasserman's office's window sill, wrapped her wings around her and waited sullenly, wondering who or what he was going to show his guests.

Her teammate, on the other hand, found it out the hard way.

Sparky didn't remember how he got to his 'workplace', not as much because of his usual forgetfulness as under the impression of Chip's story. Although Chip omitted many details in order to save time, the picture he painted still stood before the rat scientist's mind's eye, refusing to become forgotten and preventing him from falling asleep. Sparky shook his head, tumbled, hit his tail against the floor, but nothing helped. Sleep wasn't coming, his exhaustion grew, and he also woke his neighbors up. Despite being born and raised in the lab, the other animals were far from mild-natured when awakened rudely and if they could they would definitely rat him out so that he wouldn't bother them himself and serve an example to the others. But that was exactly the case when the language barrier between humans and animals was not a curse but a blessing, and everything ended happily: Bio-Tech employees found out nothing and Sparky fell asleep and let the others do the same. Not for a long time, though, but this time it was not him to blame but the group led by Doctor Wasserman entering the room.

"Come, young men, you'll see all for yourselves!" the doctor kept repeating as he constantly glanced back at his guests, already impressed judging by their facial expressions. The room, called 'Animal Models Storage' in scientific language, was indeed impressive for any man with imagination or at least familiar with the classics like 'The Secret of NIMH'. It resembled a library vault with books on shelves replaced with rodents in containers sealed with grates. When strangers appeared, many animals pressed themselves to the grates, and the Secret Service agents, not expecting such attention, felt somewhat uneasy.

"Scary?" Wasserman smiled, noticing his guests' confusion.

"Well, not quite…" Parkinson answered tentatively. "It's just—"

"Come on, no excuses required!" Elijah stopped him. "I have goosebumps myself every time I come here! Rise of the machines is nothing compared to the rise of the animals! You'll see for yourselves soon!"

Parkinson and his partner exchanged haunted glances. As the highest-ranking agent, Branson kept stone wall countenance, but the perspective troubled him, too. Pretending not to notice his guests' reaction to his words, Wasserman went to the furthest shelf from the door and used his proximity card to unlock the last container on the left in the fourth row from the floor. He shoved his hand deep inside the box and carefully took out a large rat with yellowish hair.

"Meet Sparky, our unicum!" he announced showing his catch to his guests. The rat, awakened by his touch and voice, buried its claws into the scientist's palm, blinked in confusion as it tried to understand what was going on. Upon hearing the name the rat perked its ears up and raised its snout.

"Wow! Did you see that, Tom?!" Parkinson exclaimed as he bent forward. "It understood everything!"

"Of course," Wasserman conformed with a condescending smile. "They always understand everything!"

"Why 'Sparky'?" Branson asked.

"Because it, or rather, he, since it's a male, delivers so powerful electric shocks that the sparks can be seen!"

"Well, that's natural," Trevor moved his finger over one of the containers. "The animals rub their hair against plastic and the electric charge is created…"

"I can see you didn't sleep through Physics lessons, Agent Branson!" The scientist's praise contained much more respect than politeness. "You know, we thought about that, too, but the other animals, no matter how much time they spend in their cages, never deliver any shocks. And Sparky does it with a vengeance!"

"Why didn't he shock you now?"

"Who said he shocks every time? I never said that. He shocks seldom, and you never know if he'll do it this time. That's what makes him phenomenal!"

"Yes, but what does it have to do with intelligence?" Tom asked impatiently.

"This — nothing," Wasserman agreed. "But what has is in the next room. Don't fall behind— Agent Branson, where are you going!?"

But Trevor didn't hear him as he almost ran along the passage to the shelf near the wall, on the top shelf of which he noticed another container with a rat of similar yellowish color which was intently watching them and wore a miniature replica of a lab coat.

"Agent Branson! Agent Branson!" The Bio-Tech director ran after him. "Come back!"

"Doctor, tell me, is it possible to get that container?"

"What do you need it for?"

"Is it possible or not?"

"Sure it's possible, everything's possible… But there's nothing of interest there, I assure you!"

"Don't worry, I'll be quick about it…"

Branson couldn't be described as low even if one really wanted to, but even he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the needed container with the very tips of his fingers. But that didn't stop him. He got really tired of all these animal-themed visions and wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"Careful!" Wasserman cried when the forward part of the plastic box shifted downwards.

"I know…" Trevor said through set teeth having no plans to break the container either. "Some help would be appreciated, by the way…"

"What? Oh, I got it!" The pharmacist turned to the agents still standing by the Sparky's container. "Young men! Your help is needed!"

Actually, Branson thought that Wasserman would help him himself, so he gritted his teeth barely audibly but said nothing. Elijah was in charge here, after all, and he was holding the precious rat… In the end the help came later but not too late, and the three agents managed to pull the spacious box down to their eye level.

"What is it, sir?" Parkinson inquired.

Branson carefully examined every detail worth of attention. "Nothing," he had to admit finally. "Feeder, drinker, and Sparky's twin furiously eating some rag… By the way, Doctor, where did he get it?"

"That's obvious," Wasserman shrugged. "The lab assistants put it there."

"What for?"

"For him to gnaw at it, what else? Mind you, rats must constantly grind their teeth down or they'll grow so long they won't be able to eat and die. Didn't you know that?"

"No. I have never dealt with rats. Rodents, that is. That's why I saw what wasn't there… Okay, colleagues, let's put the container back…"

"Wait!" Wasserman grew alarmed. "You won't do it without a ladder!"

"Where can we get one?" Tom asked not too politely.

"Oh, that's very simple! Go to that corner and take it!"

"You've got a ladder here?" Branson asked.

"Sure we do!"

"Why didn't you say it before?"

"Did you ask me?"

Realizing he was no match for Wasserman, Trevor stepped back letting Parkinson and his partner to put the container back. They did it quite quickly and the group left taking Sparky with them. Or rather, they thought so, for as soon as they closed the door, the real Sparky spat his gnawed lab coat out and, exhausted, sat right into the feeder.

Never before he was so close to exposure.

Like everyone else, he was awakened by Wasserman's voice, but he was too tired and paid no attention to the director's visit at first, and ran to the grate only when he heard Branson's name mentioned. The Rescue Ranger was in such a hurry to look at the agent investigating the Blather case, that it took him quite some time to realize he was still wearing his lab coat. And when he did that, it was already too late… He usually hid his clothing under the feeder, but presently he had time to only garble it up and put it into his mouth. Miraculously, it worked…

"Took him to the labyrinth, they did," a fat Zucker rat called Glutton living in the next container observed. "They'll ride the poor sod down, they will…"

"They won't," Sparky objected, shaking off and coming to the grate. "Glimmer likes it."

"Oh, yeah, it's easy for you to say that! Been idling around for the week, have you? While the guys ran hence and forth instead of you, they did…"

The Rescue Ranger chose not to argue with Glutton whose world view was genetically limited to the food bowl. What can you expect of her if no laboratory dweller except Sparky ever imagined life behind its walls? Even Prowler who lived on the neighboring shelf and covered Glimmer while Glimmer covered Sparky's absence.

The thing was that the presence of animals in the cages was checked not by lab assistants but by security guards who thought everything was alright if every cage contained a rodent. They always moved from the door inward and made only one sweep. So Sparky conspired with Prowler who lived on the shelf by the door and could run fast and jump high. After a guard checked Prowler's cage and turned around the corner, Prowler unlocked his cage with a copy of proximity key which could open all the containers, climbed on top of the shelf and ran to Glimmer's empty residence. By the time the guard got there, Prowler was already in Sparky's double place, and when the Human left, the rat unlocked the door with his card and ran back.

And all the while neither Prowler nor other rodents who knew about this combination didn't even think about using the card to escape the laboratory despite being perfectly aware of what to do and how to do that. They just didn't want it, consciously choosing the calm and sterile world of the laboratory over the free life full of danger and uncertainty. Yes, you didn't have to suffer injections and ran through labyrinths outside, but at the same time nobody was obliged to feed you, water you, or care for you. Being a rat, Sparky understood them perfectly. He also understood that if he hadn't met Gadget and the Rescue Rangers back then, he would have thought exactly the same. And that was really scary. For that reason he was having a recurring nightmare lately about his friends coming right here, to Bio-Tech, to pick him up for the next mission, and him answering them he is quitting the Rangers because it's quieter, cozier and safer here… A real nightmare, what's more to say!

The Secret Service agents had similar feelings, fearing not for themselves but for the rat splashing in a reservoir with water painted with milk for the experiment's sake. It swam from wall to wall poking small bulbs by the waterline with its nose, and only having pressed each of those and having received its share of low-frequency acoustic punches — the proximity of water didn't allow to use electric shocks — it climbed on a landing unseen through murky water and rose onto its hindlegs expecting the reward.

"How do you like it?" Wasserman asked as he fed another portion of food to Glimmer whom the humans repeated to call 'Sparky'.

"Are you sure he isn't hurt?" Branson asked again.

"If he were, would he keep doing that? We have repeated this experiment numerous times and every time he behaves in similar fashion. He never climbs on the platform until he gets caught in at least one trap, although, as you can see, he is perfectly aware where they are!"

Parkinson's partner felt skeptical about the scientist's claim. "Come on! He's just lucky!"

"Lucky?" Wasserman's spectacles sparkled unkindly. "I wish I lived this way! Have you heard anything about cognitive maps? Although whom I am asking… Let's throw him in the water again to make sure!"

"No, we believe you!" Trevor stopped him. Wasserman was clearly one of those scientists who think that nuclear explosion is just a very good Physics, and Trevor understood his enthusiasm, but still didn't like it and quickly maneuvered the conversation into a constructive line. "Nevertheless, Doctor, where's above-average intelligence here?"

"It's right here! Those traps are working constantly!"

"I don't quite get it—"

"Nothing stops Sparky from hitting the same spot over and over getting constant pleasure!"

"Nothing?" Parkinson hemmed. "He'll drown!"

Elijah looked at him closely. "You think that's the reason?"

"Sure, what else?"

"And if I tell you about a rat who had electrodes inserted in its brain, right into the so-called 'pleasure center', and then taught to press the pedal completing the circuit, it forgot about food and sleep and received pleasure until it died of starvation?"

Parkinson mumbled something and looked away. Wasserman beamed. "See! That's what I'm talking about! An ordinary rat will receive pleasure until it dies! But an extraordinary rat," he pointed at Glimmer, "will stop. And ability to stop in time is very rare not only among rodents!"

Parkinson giggled into his fist while his partner looked dejected. Apparently, the ability to stop in time wasn't one of his virtues.

Trevor was way better at it especially when he had a wristwatch with an hourly sound signal which sounded exactly at that moment. "Excuse me, Doctor," he announced having verified it was indeed 11 AM, "it's time for me to go. Thank you for the illuminating demo!"

"Time to go?" Elijah exclaimed. "But you haven't seen our labyrinth of reflections yet! Sparky does phenomenal things there!"

"I don't doubt it, but alas: too much work to do and too little time! But I think my colleagues will be happy to—"

"No, no, me and Tom need to go, too!" Parkinson took up Branson's initiative, feeling very uneasy in the presence of Wasserman and the lab animals and instantly seizing the opportunity to break free of it. "Thanks for the excursion to your inner sanctum!"

"Inner sanctum? This?" The head of Bio-Tech made a wry and disdainful face. "You must really think low of us to seriously consider this water bowl our greatest achievement! It's only an attraction for tourists like you in comparison to the contents of our secret floors. But they are off-limits even for TV stars!"

Branson flinched involuntarily. "So you did recognize me?"

"Of course!" Wasserman smiled proudly. "I've watched this program twenty times already! I hope you will find those who did that, for I have no hopes for the FBI!"

"Oh, about the FBI. Do you remember names of agents who took the letters from you?"

"Names? Of course, not! That was so long ago!"

"Berg and Sanchez, maybe?"

"Well, it's entirely possible. I don't remember, I'm telling you. But one of them was Mexican, you're right about that! You think they are involved?"

"Who, Berg and Sanchez? No, sure they are not! You just want to know how your old friends are doing, do you agree?"

"I do, Mister Branson, I certainly do! Do you know the way out? But how could you know that… Come, I'll lead you out!"

Returning Sparky named Glimmer into his container, Wasserman and the agents left the research wing and were about to say goodbyes but suddenly Parkinson turned pale, slapped his pockets and said just one word. "Pen."

"Bingo!" Tom brightened. "And I was wondering what and where you'll forget today."

"I must have left it in your office," Edward did his best not to notice his partner's teasing. "Yes, there's no other place. Doctor Wasserman, if it's okay, I'd like to—"

"Of course, young man! I wouldn't leave my things in wrong places, too! Let's go!"

"Tommy, I'll be right back! Mister Branson, I don't want to hold you back—"

"It's okay, I'll wait," Trevor said, not only showing corporate solidarity but also allowing Foxglove to keep him in sight. Awakened by the search for the pen, the Rescue Ranger rubbed her eyes, assessed the situation, and flew down to Marauder looming black in the center of the parking lot. Basically, she knew where Branson was heading, but in her current state even a dangerous ride was much better than flying on her own webbed wings. She also discovered that if you put your feet between the trunk cover and an upper edge of the license plate you could hang upside-down nicely. True, your muzzle would rub against a cold and not too clean metal, but that way the scent of exhaust was much weaker.

As for Branson, he left Bio-Tech with a split feeling. He felt no satisfaction with the work done, although it was nice to place an imaginary checkmark in front of the day's agenda milestone. The agent didn't expect to hear anything truly important and new from Wasserman, but the appetite came with the eating, and he really didn't like to leave empty-handed. You really couldn't consider meeting a wonder-rat an achievement in the struggle against the Black Table.

Tuning to the radio station whose news department was more or less trustworthy, he waved his colleagues goodbye and turned northward, planning to get to Manhattan through Queens-Midtown tunnel and from there to the mainland, to Newark. As soon as he saw his printouts, the almost forgotten feeling of omniscience returned. Trevor liked to feel like a genius, but he used to know the reasons and triggers for his feelings and thoughts, and he couldn't help but wonder whether he had gone mad. He felt calmer immediately, for he read somewhere that the man capable of doubting his own mental health wasn't completely lost to society. But where did Ukraine and journalist Gangidze whose death almost caused the President to resign came from?

_Oh my, I know even that… No, something's definitely going on here… I should finish the case as quickly as possible and do a health check as soon as possible. Who knows, maybe I'm just two steps away from dementia…_

Repeating the pledge two times to remember it, Branson forced himself to fully concentrate on driving, and all the way to Newark he looked straight ahead and listened to the radio, never suspecting there was a creature riding on the rear bumper of his car who knew answers to most if not all questions haunting him.

* 39 *

"Can't sleep, eh, lad?" Tired but no less vibrant voice made Chip jump, and the mouse pointer ended up in the opposite corner of the screen from the needed location. Not wanting to wake his wife up, the chipmunk didn't use the computer on the upper floor and went to Foxglove's room expecting to not be disturbed there for some time.

"No, Monty!" Chip answered as cheery as he could, although him not hearing his stout friend's approach was a bad sign. "Just got up a bit earlier to study the materials."

"And what do we have there?" The Aussie stood behind him trying to understand what the pile of tables on the screen meant.

"Nothing suspicious or unusual yet, but he could have deleted all incriminating calls and messages so it's too early for any conclusions."

"Thanks, Chipper, and now slower, please, for those who had just woken up so to speak."

"Huh? Oh, I see… Remember, while you and Dale guarded Branson, me and Foxglove—"

"Flew back to the HQ with the memory card. Yes, I remember… So that's all from it?"

"Yes, and that's far from all. Voice recordings, messages and mail archive, phonebook… In short, all ins and outs! The evidence is here for sure!"

"And if it's not?"

"Then I looked poorly!" The chipmunk sniffed angrily as he fought the uncooperating ball. "There is something, I'm sure of it!"

"I still don't get why you don't trust him? Zipper said—"

"I remember what Zipper said!" Chip interrupted him. "And now listen to what I'll say! The man who received our letter and personally arrested Ferrante and Snow, happens by a fluke to be an old friend of one of those who guarded Doctor Snow and died in the explosion! And when somebody tries to kill Blather he's there again, and as the head of investigation to boot! And everything seems fine, but we're talking about Trevor Fitzgerald Branson, deputy head of the Presidential Security, who has no formal rights to conduct such investigations! No rights, you hear? But he does that; moreover, he's authorized by the President, two Secretaries and the Director of National Intelligence! Doesn't it look too good to be true for you?"

"Well, what can I say… I can't say I'm a pro in these matters, but If I were a deputy head of president's security and my old friend was killed by terrorists, I would make everything possible and impossible to find these villains! So I understand this Branson very well!"

"In other words, you're biased."

"Sure! And you aren't?"

"No, I'm objective."

Monterey Jack was never good at terminology discussions so he approached from another flank. "But you still decided to trust him? Yes, you did! And that means—"

"I want to provoke him."

"Provoke? To do what?"

"Ideally — to get in touch with his masters, that is, the Black Table. But simple inaction will be enough, too."

"Inaction, you say?" Monterey asked. "But we don't even know whether our hypnosis worked!"

"So much the worse for the subject."

The friend's words troubled the Aussie very much. "Sorry, Chipper, but that's too much—"

"It's not!" The chipmunk stomped his foot on the edge of two adjacent buttons, closing the current window and opening three new ones at once. "Nothing's too much in this field! Branson giving the impression of the honest professional means nothing at all! If you forgot, at first Desiree gave a great impression, too!"

Chip mentioned that old story for a reason. He deliberately chose the most unpleasant episode for Monty, expecting not to convince him but to get rid of him. Contrary to his expectations, Monterey Jack didn't go to the kitchen to drown his sorrow in a piece of cheese, but moved a chair closer, sat right next to him and, as unassumingly as possibly, ask him a question he had all the rights to ask as Gadget's foster father who led her to the wedding altar. "Chipper, lad, how are you and Gadget?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well… I mean it! She's wound up, you're barking at people for no reason… The situation isn't pleasant, I agree, but it can be fixed! Like, I know a shaman on the Aleutian Islands…."

Chip left the trackball alone and fully turned to Monterey Jack. The Aussie was ready for any reaction, that's why he started this conversation now, when they were both exhausted. They were poor fighters in their present conditions, and later it could serve an excuse for any rude words they could say. To his surprise, the chipmunk whose nature was far from mild didn't grew angry but laughed. "Come on, Monty. it's not that bad!"

"You think so? You've been married for, like, a long-long-long time, and there's still no hint at, well, the new generation…"

"True," Chip agreed with the obvious. "But it has nothing to do with my or Gadget's health. The time just isn't right…"

"Really?" Monterey Jack hemmed skeptically. "And when will the right time come?"

"After we defeat the Black Table, of course."

The fat mouse was genuinely surprised. "What the Black Table has to do with it?"

"It's obvious!" Chip grimaced as though he had to answer this question hundred times a day. "Gadget made a vow to have no children until the Black Table is destroyed!"

Monterey Jack was stunned to hear that. "Wowie-zowie! Really? She told me nothing about it…"

"She told me nothing, too, actually. But she made it clear she considers the world where such a dangerous organization exists too dangerous to raise kids. I tried to convince her otherwise, mind you, but you know females, they see and feel everything differently…"

"Too right!" The Aussie nodded. "Say, my Mom likes to repeat that life is like a cheese sauce — no matter where you poke your spoon, you'll hit the thickest spot. Oh, I poked much in my time, almost lost all my teeth, but the thick spot was nowhere to be found… But I never expected our Gadget to say something like that. I would understand if she began working on another thesis or how that thing is called, but this…"

Chip squeezed out a grim laugh. "You won't believe it, but she did. Another one of those projects that should radically improve life around the globe. No, I don't doubt her talents for a second, but if you take it all together, it's, uhm, well… And then there's all this…"

"Cheer up, boy!" Monterey Jack rose and patted his hunched back. "Everything will be fine! Every family has difficult times, but you are made for one another, and you'll overcome all, you hear, all difficulties! And don't you dare argue with me!"

"I wasn't going to!" The chipmunk smiled again. "And there's no time for it. Foxy will call soon, and I am not even halfway through… Oh, before I forgot, please, let this conversation remain between you and me only, okay?"

"Of course! Mum's the word!" Monty showed with his gesture that his mouth was shut. He wasn't as great a secret keeper as Sparky, but if the matter concerned Gadget, he was even more reliable than Sicilian cheese banks.

"I know. By the way, since you've gotten up already, will you fly with me to pick up Foxy? I feel I won't fly too far without the co-pilot."

Monterey Jack had another idea. "Maybe we should wake up Gadget? She'll be fresher than both of us…"

"No, we shouldn't. Let her sleep, we'll be sleeping in shifts in the next while. And piloting the plane, too, so have a rest while there's still time."

"Bonzer idea," Monterey Jack agreed. "I'll be in the living room. Or in the kitchen. Or I'll settle down in the Wing, remember my turbulent pilot youth… You'll find me!"

"I will," Chip promised, cracked his knuckles and turned back to the screen.

* 40 *

Branson was not the only one to notice the simultaneity of attempts to kill Blather and Fareed J'quai, and on his way to Newark he regretted several times to have told Blunt to gather the information he no longer needed. Akbarnistanian reporters from RHOX conglomerate dug up everything including the menu of the perished pilots' last breakfast. Trevor had no reasons not to trust the official report which laid the full blame for the terrorist attack on rogue General al-Zubayri but it was too obvious to discard the version of the Black Table's involvement, even if they just carried out the order of someone like al-Zubayri.

A one-room apartment in the northernmost of the ten 14-storied buildings of the Ivy Hill housing complex, nicknamed 'Mini United Nations' for the extraordinary ethnic diversity of its tenants, boasted of impressively austere furnishings and its dweller's inhospitality. Salinger obviously expected to have a good sleep after the extremely eventful night and the prospect of travelling to Maplewood did not excite him at all. When Branson politely asked to borrow his clean shirt and show where the bathroom was, Salinger just waved down the corridor crossing the kitchen and went into the closet doubling as the wardrobe with a lemon-acid look. Trevor wasn't bemused by the cold greeting more than outweighed by a hot shower, but he doubted that other guests would be as charitable.

"You should get at least a pair of armchairs for decency's sake," he advised when they got into his car. "I doubt Miss Lennox will appreciate your one-chair minimalism."

The young agent bristled up. "What does she have to do with it? I wasn't going to invite her here!"

"And that's a shame, mind you, she's definitely worth it. Not now, of course, when you know each other less than a day, but some time later, say, the next week, after a couple of dates on the neutral ground—"

"Listen, you!" If Salinger weren't sitting in a car, he would have definitely stomped his foot with all his might. "I know you're a bigwig in the Secret Service and you are my direct superior at the moment, but that gives you no right to push me and my feelings about! Actually, I know you less than a day, too, and my personal life is not your business, you understand?!"

Trevor nodded. "I do. I understand that you understand nothing. I wish you well, that's all!"

"Seriously?" Howard looked at him askew. "And what do I owe such attention to my humble person?"

"I like you. In the finest sense of this word, so stop looking at my index finger as if you don't know I am in yet another divorce."

Salinger stopped looking but didn't stop quipping. "And how could I know that?"

"Haven't you inquired about me?"

"Where could I do that?"

"You could ask your boss, for instance. Or your hacker friend, whichever suits you best."

"I have no habit of rummaging through other people's dirty laundry," Salinger turned away to the side window, but it was clear it took him quite an effort to swallow the 'unlike you' part.

"Is this a Secret Service field agent speaking?" Trevor raised his right brow in surprise. "You scare me, Howard."

"You scare me, too!" Salinger snapped back. "How did you know where to look for the car?"

"The car?!" Branson decelerated in order not to hit something from joy. "You found the car?!"

"Yes, on the parking lot in front of the County Prosecutors Office."

"Are you sure it's that car?"

"At least color and license plate match, and we found a sponge soaked with chloroform and two fake Secret Service IDs inside."

"No photos and no names, of course."

"Just the badges. And even those look like they were cut out from a tin sheet with pliers."

"Blatantly bold fake… That's interesting. The car is mass-produced or serviced?"

"We're still checking it, but it looks like it was serviced. Produced some three or four years ago—"

"And thus could be easily bought on the secondary market," Trevor finished. "But try to trace it nevertheless."

"We didn't even think of doing it, of course, but if you. Mister Branson, ask, we'll certainly try—"

There was so much acid in his voice Trevor couldn't stand it. "Stop it now! How dare you! Lost all sense of fear? I can forgive many things, but I won't tolerate boorishness! You do it again, and you'll be hunting poachers in Alaska before the nightfall! Understood?!"

Howard didn't expect such an outburst of emotions. He sunk his head into his shoulders and nodded, but it was not enough for Trevor. "Agent Salinger, I can't hear you!"

"Understood…" Howard forced himself to say.

"In that case I think we understood each other," Branson sighed and patted his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "But watch your manners and words, for someone else won't be as forgiving as me."

"If that someone else doesn't—" Howard cut himself short.

"Doesn't what?" Trevor asked sternly, though it was not anger but benevolence already. "Meddle with his subordinates' personal life? Let me tell you one thing: if this someone is worth anything as superior, he will meddle with it. And not of idle curiosity, mind you, but to make his and others' lives easier!"

Salinger was silent for some time, intensely thinking something over, then suddenly turned to Branson. "So that's what it's all about!" He stated uncompromisingly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your attention to me and Connie— Constance! You devised it back in the ward! That's why you called her! To make sure everything's going smoothly between us, and you have an informant among the hospital staff! She is a backup for the agents we placed in the hospital!"

"Wow!" Branson was amazed. "You are a bright young man, indeed! You outdid even me!"

"What do you mean, 'outdid'?" Howard became alerted, perplexed by open joy in his superior's voice.

"I didn't think about things you mentioned at all," Trevor answered honestly, tactfully omitting that he considered it an unforgivable failure of his.

"Yeah, right…"

"Don't believe me if you don't want to. But now I know for sure that I was right about you."

There was another pause during which the men looked in different directions. Trevor was the first to break the silence. "Want to smoke?" He opened the glove compartment showing an opened pack of expensive cigarettes. "Be my guest."

"Thanks, I don't smoke," Salinger said gloomily.

"Good for you," Trevor admired him shutting the lid.

Howard waved his hand impassionately. "No, you may smoke if you want. My parents smoked, so I'm used to the scent."

"I don't smoke, too."

"What are those for, then?" Howard wondered.

"For establishing contact. The first step is always the hardest. Offering a cigarette is a natural and effective way to start a conversation."

"You're an embodiment of effectiveness," Salinger grumbled. Trevor didn't answer, just shrugged as if saying 'there's no other way'.

They were silent for some time, but, as Branson expected, a short episode with cigarettes broke the pack-ice and Howard's curiosity boiling underneath finally made its way to the surface. "So how did you know where to look for the car?"

"My intuition told me."

"Really!" Salinger's voice was a mix of acid, distrust and admiration. The former still prevailed, but a positive tendency was clearly there. "And how often does it speak to you?"

"More or less regularly. Yours would have told you the same thing, though, if you had read those materials over there," Trevor pointed his thumb behind him, at the printouts he had moved on the backseat. Salinger took them and became so deeply immersed in reading he failed to notice the car stopping.

"We're here!" Branson informed him as he parked in front of the police precinct. "I won't ask what you think about it for I can already see you've got plenty of thoughts."

"So you think…" Salinger was so agitated he barely managed to unfasten his belt. "You think it's a conspiracy against the President?!"

"It could be, but don't yell so loudly, you make people look at you. No, leave papers here, the police don't need them. It looks like a quiet town, so let's hope Lieutenant Morrison isn't too busy…"

Locking his car, Branson pulled his mackintosh closely around him and went to the police station with Howard, while Foxglove, awakened by door slamming and car alarm sound signal, flew away looking for a payphone. Neither they nor few passersby's noticed the van belonging, according to signs, to a large electrical company, which drove past the police station and stopped beyond the crossing.

"Twelve twenty three: entering Maplewood police precinct," Brad announced.

"Recorded," Pete confirmed sitting next to him. "Apparently, they decided to pay Mister Morrison a visit."

"Very perceptive of you, Petey! Remind me, please, where his office is."

"First floor, south-western corner."

Brad roughly estimated azimuth. "I think the third post from here will do. Let's take a walk before you grow too fat."

Pretending not to hear his partner's response, Brad exited the van. While they gathered their tools and took a telescopic ladder off the van's roof, and Foxglove explained Chip where she was and how to get there, the Secret Service agents used the same route as Blather did the day before to reach the office of the head of the Homicide Department. The first thing they saw was Stan Blather's photo in black frame on a separate table, its mourning nature further emphasized by a whiteness of gladioli lying by it.

"Surprised?" Morrison asked as he followed their guests' stares.

"Honestly, yes," Trevor acknowledged. "This composition should be in the lobby, where everyone could see it."

The policeman smiled sadly. "Everyone sees it here, too. Everyone considers their duty to come here and pay tribute to him. And to me, too, if you know what I mean…"

Branson did know. Having left Blather alone in his office, Morrison considered Blather's death his own fault, and every visit of his colleagues, even friendly disposed, was a silent reminder and reproof for him.

"Don't blame yourself, Lieutenant, you couldn't have known—"

"Drop it, Agent Branson, drop it! I've said the same thing thousands of times before, but I'm perfectly aware that not-knowing is the worst of excuses. And I don't have even that, for I knew for sure who he was, what he did, and what they could do to him."

"I understand your feelings, Lieutenant, but let's leave the past behind us and come to the present," Branson took time by the forelock fearing that Salinger, deeply moved by the police officer's grief, would blurt out the truth about Blather. He sat on the offered chair, showed Morrison his phone was capable of voice recording, and when the lieutenant nodded knowingly he switched it off. "The voice recorder is used to catch the opponents at contradictions," he explained when Morrison looked at him in surprise. "But I have no doubts of your sincerity, so I don't need it. Does it suit you?"

"More or less." It was clear from the lieutenant's voice he was actively searching for the catch. "What exactly are you interested in?"

"First, Lieutenant, I'd like to ask your permission to call you Jim."

Morrison became even more alert but permitted. "You got it."

"In that case, call me Trevor!" The agent extended his hand to physically capture the reached agreements. "I know, my words may seem insincere to you, but still I want to attest that I view our meeting not as a witness interview or, even more so, a suspect interrogation, but as a friendly encounter of representatives of two law enforcement agencies to share expertise and valuable operational information. How do you like that?"

Morrison smiled and reclined in his armchair. "As for me, I give two thumbs up. But I'm afraid no sharing is possible. I don't conduct an investigation; the FBI agents Berg and Sanchez do, and they have all the materials you're looking for."

"With all due respect, Jim, you're wrong on all three accounts. We conduct the investigation, not the FBI, and we have all the materials."

The policeman was impressed. "Really? You work fast! It's no surprise, though, given your agents are involved."

"False agents," Branson corrected. "You checked that yourself."

"I wouldn't say that." Now it was Morrison's turn to attack. "I only know that there are no agents named Smith and Johnson in your Newark office, but I'm positive that these common names happen among your colleagues. Also Mister Blather was careful enough not to leave with just anyone, and thus those two had legitimate IDs."

"No!" Salinger couldn't contain himself. "They just flapped the IDs under his nose and he didn't see anything for sure!"

Morrison looked at him narrowly. "I'm sorry, but how do you know that?"

"Because it's the only credible explanation," Branson answered instead of his colleague.

"Of what?"

"Of Blather leaving with them. Thing is— Howard, you're better informed than me on this matter, so you're welcome to tell Jim everything!"

Salinger, still recovering from realization of probable outcome of his careless words, began his tale somewhat confusedly, but he overcame his nervousness in the process and at the end spoke in succinct and refined phrases which left no chance for ambiguity.

"Do you have pictures of those fakes by chance?" The policeman asked when Howard finished. "There's a firm in Springfield not far from here, they make badges and memorabilia. We ordered them honorary medals for our department's centennial anniversary. They could know something about that."

Salinger shook his head. "Thanks for the advice, but that's highly unlikely. As I said, the fakes were very crude and primitive, professionals wouldn't have made those."

He looked at Branson expecting support, but this time Trevor sided with the police officer. "On the contrary, Howard, Jim speaks sense! These firms eagerly produce such obvious fakes for there's no risk to be accused of forgery. So we need the pictures as fast as possible!"

"Yes, but… I know, but…" Salinger's shirt became wet with sweat. "I don't have them on me, we'll have to go after them—"

"Why?" Trevor wondered. "Call your colleagues, ask them to drop you an MMS! Digital cameras make it all very fast!"

"Oh, well, right… I'll do it now…" The young agent reached for his phone with his trembling hand.

"Howard, make a call from the corridor if you please," Branson's seemingly casual wave of his hand carried so much indisputable imperiousness that Salinger almost ran out of the room. Even if Branson had whipped him in front of the entire precinct he wouldn't have felt so miserable.

"That was strict," Morrison couldn't help commenting when they were alone.

"I am strict," Trevor agreed. "Can't do it any other way. Our drill sergeant always reminded us that discipline is the base of success. After that we always ran a lot and made countless push-ups, so when I was a recruit I wanted to kill him ten times for each of those words. But now I know those words were one of the wisest things I heard in my entire life, if not the wisest."

For the first time during the conversation Morrison smiled really easily. "Same here. Although our sergeant said 'order is power', and followed it by giving out barracks cleaning assignments. What a time…"

"Wait," Trevor was surprised. "Did you serve in the Marine Corps, too?"

"I did."

"Oh, my… What force, if it's not a secret?"

"No secret. Third Expeditionary."

"And I was the Second. You trained on Parris?"

"Exactly. Could we have met there?"

"I don't think so, I'd have remembered that… Where did you stay there?"

"Spring of '83".

"Then we couldn't have met, I trampled in the mud there in '79."

"Didn't you know Sergeant Payne? Bald one, with a high-pitched voice…"

"Oh, don't remind me," Branson shivered emphatically. "He was our senior drill sergeant and matched his name perfectly! Just like his assistants, sergeants Hunter and Ward. We called them 'the Three Horsemen' when they weren't around."

"Apparently they knew about it, for they introduced themselves that way to our platoon."

"I'm afraid to ask what followed," this time Trevor shivered for real.

"And we were even more afraid! At one time—"

"Alright, that will take a while!" Monterey Jack announced knowingly being an acknowledged master of telling stories. "If soldiers take the floor, they won't give it back easily! Take my fellow countryman and old friend Dog 'Colonel' Shepherd, for instance! I don't know about other shepherd dogs, but he can talk about the secrets of driving the flock for hours! Or even days! Now we're sitting with him once—"

"Please, Monty, not now!" Chip knew he wouldn't stand the tall stories in stereo effect. "Have some sleep instead. We won't need your services for half an hour at least, but later — who knows."

"Alright, alright, I'm keeping mum," the Aussie was insulted but still followed the advice and sat by the wall. "As Dog says, the shepherds sleep not when they want, but when they can. Wake me up if need be." Then he lowered his goggles onto his eyes and in a minute started snoring so contagiously that even Foxglove who took a nap on the way here began to drift off, while Chip's eyelids grew heavy as if made of lead.

"Have some sleep, too," the bat said, touching his shoulder.

"No. I can't. Too early."

"Don't worry, I'll remember everything they'll say!"

"I know, but it's not only about words. Mimics, tone, context — everything's important. I must see everything for myself."

"But you're sitting with your eyes closed!"

"Do I? Oh, I do… Please, fly to the Wing, there should be a thermos with coffee on the back row. The remains of it, at least…"

"Okay! I'll be right back!" Foxglove vanished in shades. When she got back, Chip was sitting on the same spot with his eyes closed and breathing steadily through his half-opened mouth.

"Chip!" Foxglove nagged him. "Chip!"

"Yes, I hear you, everything's alright," Chip answered without raising his head. "Got coffee? Looks like I need it more than I thought…"

"Yes! Here!" The bat poured some coffee into the thermos' lid and shoved it into Chip's palm. Breathing in a telltale aroma with his nose, the rodent managed to lift his eyelids and bring the cup to his lips.

"Chip, maybe you should—"

"Foxy, can you hypnotize me and make me believe I've just slept for, like, a day?"

"No, I can't. I can put you to sleep, but not vice versa. I'm not a witch, I'm just studying. Sorry."

"No problem." Owing to the rodents' accelerated metabolism coffee works quicker on them than on Humans, so Chip felt capable of standing up, if not raising some mountains, even before he finished his cup. "But don't go too far away, maybe I'll need catching, and you're the best at it."

"Of course!" Foxglove nodded, and the partners settled down on the very edge of the listening hole. If they were in the NYPD Fifth precinct, they would have been under Morrison's desk, if not on it, long ago. Unfortunately, the Maplewood Police Department's building was almost brand new and it lacked not only passageways deliberately made by the Rescue Rangers, but also had no dense network of mouse holes common for older buildings. Thus the Rangers could do nothing but get on the opposite side of the suspended ceiling of the needed office. There was no classic ventilation grating there, though, and were it not for Foxglove noticing a small crack in the corner of one of the tiles which Monterey Jack then turned into a full-fledged hole with a mighty pull, their mission would be a failure.

Branson couldn't complain, too. He didn't expect his remark just to ease the situation to nail it. To tell the truth, it did no credit to him, for the professionals must rely not on a lucky accident but on thorough preparations including, among other things, studying the detailed bios of those they were about to meet. On the other hand, this way he didn't have to pretend to be pleasantly surprised, and Morrison, feeling his sincerity, came out of his shell and willingly answered the questions about ups and downs of his service. Branson served him with the same sauce, and they spent the next several dozens of minutes reminiscing about the past. Both men had things to remember and to brag about, and when Jim told that his oldest son followed in his wake and was serving in Okinawa at the moment, the memoirs gave way to heated discussion of the modern state of the Marine Corps. And this time Branson's interest was sincere, too, for there is a reason why the motto Semper Fi is backed by a proverb 'once a Marine, always a Marine'.

"I wonder where your partner has gone," Morrison observed when the sides agreed that defense spending shouldn't be cut "It seems you scared him so much he went into hiding!"

"I don't think so," Trevor grinned. Actually, his young colleague's long absence began troubling him, too, but he thought too well of Howard to suspect him lacking character, and he also knew how much time the simplest of things could take sometimes. "Rather, he doesn't want to return empty-handed, and the response from Newark is yet to come. But that's even better."

"Right. I doubt he'd be interested in listening to the old men's yarns."

"That, too, yes, but that's not the point."

"And what is?"

"Remember I mentioned the three accounts?"

Morrison tried to remember. "No, I don't. What were those?"

"The FBI conducting the investigation and having all the materials."

"Oh, yeah, I remember now… You really have no voice recorder on you?"

"I don't need one within one conversation," Branson answered with a bit of bravado. "So, when I said you were wrong on all three accounts, I meant that, first, this investigation was conducted by us, not by the FBI; second, that we have the materials and not them; and third, that I'm interested in not the case materials, but what was left out of them."

Morrison tensed visible. "You imply we concealed something?"

"Rather decided not to mention. Or just didn't have time because of the forensic tests taking too much time."

The policeman didn't make a face, didn't flinch, didn't look away. He was just silent a bit longer than usual thus giving himself out.

"What was there, Jim?" Branson asked. "What did you find?"

Morrison looked at him from under the brows. "Bullets," he gave a short answer.

"Bullets?"

"They're still making the tests so formally those are just 'pieces of unknown metal of uncertain shape', but I've been working in Homicides long enough to tell a bullet from a nail."

"Interesting…" Branson muttered wondering how the bullets are connected with the bugs installed in the reporter's house which he somehow knew to have existed. "And no bodies, I presume?"

"No. The fire was quite heavy, sure, but there wasn't enough heat to turn a human body into ashes. They could take it away with them, though, like they did with cartridges."

"They took the cartridges away?"

"In any case, we found none, although we swept everywhere with metal detectors."

"I see. Could you establish the caliber?"

"Around nine millimeters, could be forty or three-five-seven." Morrison paused significantly. "Like your Sauers—"

"Yours, too," Trevor countered instantly.

"Yes, but you must agree that there are too many coincidences…"

"Which prove nothing on their own. By the way, have you told Blather about the bullets?"

"No, I didn't have time for that. And I wouldn't dare to mention it before the lab had run their tests. It could be my mistake, you know…"

Branson knew it better than most and gradually moved to the next question. "Pry marks?"

"None in common sense."

"What about uncommon?"

"There was something," Morrison looked about his desk searching for some unneeded piece of paper, found none and took a clean sheet from the stack by the printer. "Look," he drew two adjacent squares, labeling the bigger as 'House' and the smaller as 'Garage'. Then he thought for a moment and drew the third one between the first two, the smallest one, and labeled it as 'Closet'. "As you know, the explosion happened in the garage. One could get there through the gates, through the inner door from inside the house and from this closet here. Actually, there were no more ways to get in or out of the closet, and according to Mister Blather he locked it up before leaving for Washington."

"What did he keep there?"

"His lawn mower and gardening tools."

"Well, such things deserve to be locked up."

"Yes, but he left the key right there, in the garage, on the top shelf of the stand."

Branson had already heard it from Blather himself, and only his many years of interrogation practice allowed him not to blurt out 'I know' but say a neutral phrase. "Unwise of him"

"Agreed. But that's not the point."

"And what is?"

"The closet was forced open from the inside."

Chip and Foxglove froze.

"From the inside? But Blather—" Branson was so astonished he almost said something foolish but he corrected himself quickly. "When he left for Washington, the closet was locked and there was no one inside, right?"

"According to his words, that's the way it was."

"But then… How was it forced open?"

"With a ram."

"Darn! They found out even that!" Chip exclaimed.

Branson expected to hear of lockpicks, crowbar or something like a wrench, and wasn't prepared for this variant, too. "Ram? What ram?"

"Not too large but massive enough to tear a piece about two by two feet from the door."

"Not too shabby… What was the door made of?"

"Common chipboard."

"No metal cover? And it survived the explosion?"

"Rather, it wasn't completely destroyed. It was torn from its hinges and thrown into the closet where fire was weaker than in the garage."

"Talk about faith in explosions and fires," Chip said gloomily.

In contrast, Branson was happy for the colleague. "Well, congratulations, that was very lucky! But are you sure that hole wasn't made by the explosion?"

"I deliberately asked Mister Blather to what side the door was opening and where the handle was located. Apparently, the blow came from the inside."

"What if something exploded inside first and then—"

"Mister Blather said he stored nothing flammable there."

"Very interesting…" Trevor plucked at his moustache thoughtfully. "In that case only one question remains: what's your version?"

"At first we thought an incendiary bomb was planted under the house. But then the forensics found traces of petroleum in all the rooms on the ground floor, and the case was re-qualified into arson aimed to intimidate Mister Blather or avenge on him."

"Nice version."

"Very nice. Was. But then we found out some strange things. First, the call."

"What call?"

"From Blather's house. By phone. To 9-1-1."

Branson stopped understanding anything at all. "That's a twist… Who called?"

"Unknown. The call got interrupted almost immediately, but the operator heard shouts and a strange sound which was later identified as a shot from a gun with a suppressor."

"That's why you looked for the bodies and bullets?"

"Exactly. Like I said, we found no bodies, but managed to catch the shouted words. The last of those, at least, since the start of the phrase got mixed up with the operator's response '9-1-1, where's your emergency?'"

"I hope it was a shooter's name."

"I wish it were!" Morrison rolled his eyes dreamily. "It was 'His girlfriend'".

"The name of the shooter's girlfriend?"

"No, his last words were "his girlfriend"".

"And that's it?"

"First a shot, then nothing."

"Very interesting. The criminals argued over somebody's girlfriend and one of them shot the other? Or another option — a jealous leader of a gang of robbers found out his beloved one had a romance with one of his henchmen, so he took him along and ordered, say, his lead henchman to kill him. The man takes out the gun, shouts 'Now you'll remember she's his girlfriend!' and shoots. The 9-1-1 operator hears it, because the leader called them to attract attention to this house; something like a message to show what punishment awaits those who cross him. Or maybe it was a trap? Maybe they expected the police to arrive sooner and got caught by the explosion?"

"He's good!" Foxglove observed.

"He is," Chip agreed.

Morrison had the same opinion. "Not bad! Not bad at all! You're quite inventive, no doubt at that!"

"Imagination and experience can do many things, yes. But I think you have already considered both these options and dismissed them. Why? There was something else?"

"Yes. Blather's car."

"The one thrown out of the garage by the explosion?"

"Yes. That is, no. It wasn't thrown out of the garage by the explosion. It drove out of it on its own approximately zero point eighty seven seconds before the explosion."

"Wow!" The agent was sincerely amazed. "Now that's some accuracy! 'CSI' TV series pales before it!"

"The lab guys would be pleased to hear that, but it wasn't their merit. All the credit goes to the cameras on the patrol cars. They were approaching the Blather's house when the explosion happened, and filmed everything…"

"Chip?! What's wrong?!" Foxglove was startled to see her striped friend reeling and clasping his head.

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy…" Chip muttered squeezing his temples with his paws. "I forgot, I completely forgot those cameras! If they caught us and the gyrotank…"

Branson could barely sit because of agitation. "Did they catch the driver?"

"They were in the far end of the street when the car flew out from the garage, and little could be seen from that distance. But it was constantly in our boys' field of view since then and they swear nobody exited it."

"But it was empty," Trevor finished.

"Exactly," Morrison made a helpless gesture. "The engine is working, the back gear is switched, and nobody's inside."

"And no traces?"

"Lots of fingerprints, but all belong to Mister Blather."

"I didn't know the police had his fingerprints."

"We didn't until he drank coffee with me."

Branson regarded the policeman with undisguised respect. "Nice!"

"Nothing at all, I just forgot to wash the cup yesterday."

"Everything counts in cases like this one," Trevor objected. "That's why I'd like to hear your own version."

"Haven't I told you?"

"Have you? I don't think you really believe that the shoot-out and the explosion were caused by the jealous robbers. Not to mention that this version does not explain the car, and you know better than me that the version has the right to exist only if it explains everything. And you have such a version. You must have one."

"You're right," Morrison said after a brief pause which seemed to last as long as a geological epoch to his listeners. "I have one. Do you really want to hear it?"

"I wouldn't have come here otherwise."

The lieutenant bent forward, put his elbows on the desk and looked straight into Trevor's eyes. "Off the record?" He asked again.

"Off the record," Branson confirmed, confident he would have to fend off another accusation of the Secret Service.

He was wrong.

"The MAPs did it."

These words made the whole precinct shake. At least, Chip thought so, barely managing to remain standing. Trevor's emotions weren't as strong, but still he was happy to be sitting.

"I see I managed to surprise you," the policeman observed with satisfaction.

"Yes, it was the last thing I expected to hear. Although after the Blather's program—"

"I knew!" Morrison interrupted him. "I knew you'd say that!"

"I'll finish if you please. So, after everything Blather had uncovered this version must have been the first to occur to me, too."

"Really?" The lieutenant snickered incredulously. "And I thought the Secret Service agents to be die-hard skeptics."

"They are, but while the others tend to doubt the threats exist, we believe in their existence till the end. Especially those we saw with our own eyes. And I saw them. I was at the Peace Ceremony and even made it into the Blather's show."

Morrison squinted, remembering. "The Blather's show… Oh, it was you who asked everyone to calm down from the stage? And I wondered why you look familiar…"

"Apparently, I grew older than I wanted," Branson smiled. "So you think they sent mice-assassins after Blather?"

"I think it's the most probable scenario given the strange object on his car's rear bumper."

"What strange object?" Branson asked. Stan didn't mention that to him.

"Something like a large gray ball. Blather's neighbor saw it when he was driving into his garage. Then it vanished."

"Just like that? Vanished?"

"Mister Blather believed his neighbor just saw things. It's possible, since it was getting dark already and the neighbor drank two cans of beer before that. But if it were there? What if it were a container for MAPs?"

"Where did it go, then?"

"Oh, that's the most interesting part! According to Blather, his house was watched from a blue GMC Savana van. And I thought: what if that container was remote controlled? Then the criminals waited for Blather to drive into the garage and moved it to some dark corner. Or even that same closet. The MAPs were probably under some tranquilizers. They wear off at night, the animals get out of the container, and sleeping Blather meets the same fate as Haddahm's—"

"But something goes wrong," Branson joined in. "Say, they miscalculated the dose and the animals slept till morning—"

"And in the morning Blather left for DC."

"And the killers broke into the house to get the animals—"

"—which have broken free already—"

"—so the men use their weapons—"

"—with suppressors not to alert the neighbors—"

"—but the rodents are too fast—"

"—and accidentally press the emergency call button on the phone!"

"So the criminals decide to burn the house down—"

"—and they find everything they need in the garage."

"They manage to drive the animals into the garage—"

"—and then to the closet—"

"—and leave before the police came—"

"—but the rodents broke out of the closet—"

"—and then from the garage—"

"—using Blather's car—"

"—and run away into the unknown direction!"

Having forgotten their need to breathe, Chip and Foxglove synchronously fell on the floor, gasping for air. Branson and Morrison undid their collar buttons and sat silently for a few seconds, catching their breath after the brainstorm.

"That was good!" The Secret Service agent spoke first. "Now I know why you wanted to talk off the record."

"It's all just speculation. Unfortunately. Or fortunately. For it would mean the animals are still here somewhere."

"Oh, by the way, why do you think there were several of them?"

"By analogy to the Peace Ceremony. And it explains that shout about 'girlfriend'. Suppose they send a male-female pair into the field. That would explain what that bandit meant and where that chipmunk came from."

"You think those were the same animals?" Branson wondered having no idea how close he was to the truth.

"The same? No, I don't think so. As far as I know, mice don't live that long."

"He clearly hasn't met Cheddarhead Charlie…" Chip joked, greatly relieved by Morrison's words.

"Who hasn't met my daddy?!" Monterey Jack's loud voice boomed behind him.

"There's a couple of people down there… Hey, you woke up!"

"It's really hard to sleep here," the Aussie grumbled as he dusted his jacket off. "Screams, moans, falls… Why are you on the floor, by the way? Did I miss something?"

"That's an understatement!" Foxglove replied. "You'll fall down, too! Those two just—"

"LATER!" Chip shouted fearing that the ceiling wouldn't survive Monterey's fall. "All questions later! Let's listen!"

And there was much to listen, indeed. As a token of his gratitude for sharing an interesting and promising version, Branson, also off the record, told his new friend about his suspicions concerning listening devices in the Blather's house, backing up his words by the fact of the reporter's computer accessing the internet in his absence. The Rescue Rangers were happy to hear the former and sad to hear the latter. But they could do nothing about it except hoping that nobody would credit the rodents with using the computer.

"Now that's an interesting turn of events…" The lieutenant paused to think. "But it's logical to assume that they were interested not only in Blather himself but his materials, too, especially his sources. So while some criminals were chasing the animals, the others worked with the computer."

"And the bugs," Trevor added.

Morrison pursed his lips. "I don't know. Sure, they could have been there, but why? Or rather, how? It would mean Blather had been under surveillance all the time. How could he prepare his show without them knowing about it?"

"Maybe they did know," Branson offered, remembering a conversation between Jefferson and 'The Godfather'. "Just underestimated the danger and reacted too late…"

"Well, anything's possible, but that would be much too unprofessional for, well…"

"For whom? The CIA?"

"You said that, not me."

"Why do you think it was the CIA and not the Black Table?"

"No idea," Morrison made a helpless gesture with his hands, but his voice and eyes showed he wasn't being sincere.

"But still?" Trevor pressed on.

"You can call it intuition. Can't say I'm a big specialist on the Black Table, but, as the explosion in DC shows, they have other methods of dealing with unneeded witnesses, swift and no bugs."

Branson had what to say. Actually, he had a whole theory about the Black Table's plans which explained the listening devices in the Blather's house in the best way possible. On the other hand, he didn't want to talk about it aloud at the moment, and it wasn't meant for the ears of strangers like Morrison. But after the policeman's phrase the words literally jumped onto his tongue and he almost told the chief of Maplewood PD Homicide department the things that required him to kill Morrison on the spot afterwards. Only a miracle could save Morrison…

Or Salinger's return.

"Hello, Howard!" Branson exclaimed happily when his young colleague appeared, too hasty to knock. "And we were already wondering what happened to you! Any problems?"

"No, no problems! It's just…" Salinger looked sideways at Morrison, not wanting to be brutally honest in his presence. "It took longer than I thought."

"In other words, your Newark colleagues are not only up to their ears in their work but also a little clumsy," Trevor deciphered and turned to the policeman. "Have you ever noticed, Jim, that the bigger the institution the slower it works?"

"I notice it all the time! That's why I try to work with the county as little as possible, to avoid the red tape."

"Apparently, it's all the same everywhere," Branson observed and turned to Salinger who was obviously confused by this parade of sincerity. "Do you have the photos with you?"

"Yes, sure!" The agent took out his phone, ejected the memory card and handed it to Morrison. "Here, I made a copy for you!"

"Thanks, but why? It's not a police investigation anymore, as far as I know."

Salinger froze in an unnatural pose, and Branson came to his rescue. "Just tell us if the firm you mentioned could have done those. By the way, since they know you already, your people should go there, too."

"Well, that's reasonable," Morrison acknowledged, only now accepting the offered data carrier. Salinger sat down on the chair he occupied previously and watched the policeman's actions with great interest. Truth be told, he would have watched a black screen of a switched off TV or a blank wall with the same interest; anything to avoid the eyes of his superior whom he had failed twice already forcing him to improvise. And while Branson turned both situations to good accounts, it didn't make things any easier for Howard. What got into him and made him stay in office a bit longer than usual? If he had gone to the bar with his buddies, they wouldn't have sent him to this cursed Jersey City! He had to play clown for half a night, and now he was facing dismissal due to complete malcompetence… And he would be lucky to be just dismissed! They could easily send him as a leg agent to some Alabama…

"Thanks, agent!" Morrison's voice brought him out of his gloomy reverie.

Howard took his memory card back, feeling once again an active participant and tried to compensate for his faults somehow, and that meant he had to be initiative. "What do you think about the badges, Lieutenant?"

"It's a very bold fake, and only a very short-sighted man could take them for real badges."

"Or if he saw them only at a glimpse."

"That's an option, too. When do you plan to go to that firm?"

"Tomor— Today! Right now!" Salinger corrected himself hoping his eagerness would please his boss. "Right, Mister Branson?"

"Yes, Howard, way to go!" Trevor smiled. "But I must be in Washington in an hour, so I'll leave it to you."

"To me… But…" The young agent lost his barely regained confidence again, so Trevor had to pick up the slack. "Well, Jim," he rose and extended his hand, "it was great pleasure to meet you! I really didn't expect to meet such a top-class professional here on the fringes! Have you considered a transfer to the state police? I could help you with it."

"No, thanks!" Morrison rejected politely but firmly. "It's even harder to work with the state than with the county. I don't want to be a part of red tape."

"Don't be. Then it would become less of it, who knows."

"Please, one man will never change anything."

"A good man coming to his proper place is a great change for the better."

"I'm in my proper place already and I really help people here. I helped you, for instance. And if I go to the state, they'll send some hogherd from Nebraska here who barely managed to finish the academy. Whom will he help? It would be good enough if he ruins nothing."

"Well, maybe you're right," Branson backed off. "In any case, I would have never had such a pleasant conversation with a hogherd from Nebraska."

"Indeed, that was great! Too bad your colleague was absent. It could be useful for him!"

"Don't worry, I'll retell him everything. And if I forget something, I'll direct him to you to fill the blanks with the recording."

Morrison's smiley face became stale as last year's bread. "What recording are you talking about?"

"Of our conversation, naturally. It was recorded, wasn't it? Maybe not by you, but it was, right? Otherwise how do you know what happened here while you were away?"

The lieutenant glared at Trevor for a few seconds, but then gave up and took the voice recorder out which he yesterday demonstrated to Berg and Sanchez. "My insurance," he explained. "It's voice activated and can store up to ten hours of recordings — the entire working day. If an innocent-looking visitor happens to be a killer, the device will expose him."

"Inventive!" Trevor admired. "Did it catch anyone coming for you?"

"Not for me. For my predecessor."

"Oh my…" Salinger gasped. "And it seems to be such a quiet place…"

"It could happen anywhere these days."

"Right," Branson agreed. "I wonder whether I should get one of those for me, too."

"Why not? It's useful. Just remember it won't help you much. It would make things much easier for your colleagues, though."

"Not only them," Howard objected. "It really helped with Blather!"

"Yeah, it did," Morrison commented regarding the agent with a stony stare, then turned to Branson. "Forgive my prying, Trevor, but I feel I must ask: did Blather really die?"

_Darn!_ Salinger thought. _He got it! All's lost!_

Branson wasn't as pessimistic, but knew it would be really difficult to salvage the situation. "Why do you ask?" he inquired, trying to make his surprise look genuine.

"Well," Morrison noticed Salinger's confusion and he felt he was on the right track. "You speak too easily about the dead man. And if in your case, Trevor, it could be attributed to cynicism after many years of service, your colleague is too young for that. But even more importantly, you asked no questions about the abductors' looks! Isn't that strange?"

"I thought you didn't see them," Branson tried to take back the initiative while thinking about a viable explanation of such a crying mistake. "As far as I know—"

"Yes, I wasn't here and I didn't see them. But we have cameras everywhere, you could have at least tried to find something on those records…"

Morrison really nailed it but he also gave Branson a million dollar hint.

"As if there's anything to look for!" Trevor said as carelessly as he could. "I bet the criminals either look away from the cameras or cover their faces. Am I right?"

"You are right," the lieutenant acknowledged unwillingly. "But it's still strange not to use this chance."

"I fully agree with you, Jim. It is strange. Even more so, it's very unprofessional of us," Branson paused for greater effect and to get a few more seconds to think his words through. "It would have been. If we hadn't already known how they look. Yes-yes, Howard, don't be surprised! We do!" He confirmed when Salinger looked at him with his eyes bulging. "On my way to pick you up I called your superior and he told me the forensic team processed the footage from the bridge's cameras and got the images of the faces! So we'll know pretty soon who they are and who they are working for!"

Everybody was silent for a while, then Morrison smiled and raised his hands. "Alright, I give up, you convinced me. Too bad. I hoped my fault wasn't fatal after all… On the other hand," the policeman narrowed his eyes, "I have a feeling that even if Blather were alive you wouldn't tell me the truth."

"No, I wouldn't," Branson confirmed. "For his own sake. You should understand. After all, you told him his wife should get rid of their car."

"You know even that?" Morrison was amazed. "You have found his family? So fast?"

"It was easy. Blather sent them to his parents-in-law."

"Then the search wasn't really needed. Do you have them?"

"Yes, they are safe now. Truly safe."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that at least they are alright."

"Owing to you, too."

Morrison waved his hand dismissively. "Stop it, I've got nothing to do with it."

"You helped them. It was very nobly of you and it's another proof that people watch over one another in small towns."

"I see you're not only a detective but also quite an orator. It's hard to believe you're not a head of the whole Secret Service yet. You don't want to or they don't let you?"

"A bit of everything," Branson answered evasively. He didn't like to talk about that. "Well, I don't want to abuse your hospitality any longer than it's necessary, and I still have to do some heroic deeds today. I leave Agent Salinger behind… You haven't changed your mind about the firm, Howard?"

"The firm? But… Oh, right! That is, no, I haven't!"

"Great! When you're back to Newark, call me. Or better send a message in case I won't be able to talk. Well, looks like this is it… Oh, Jim, here's my card! If you need any help, call me. Although I'll be happy to talk to you at the slightest pretext and even without any. In short, I'm looking forward to your call!"

"I'll keep that in mind! See you!"

"Thanks! Bye! Oh, Howard, have you left anything of yours in my car?"

Salinger slapped his pockets. "I don't think so…"

"Are you sure?" Trevor pressed on.

"No, I'm not…"

"Then come and check for yourself before I take anything of value to you to DC. Goodbye again, Jim! Howard, don't fall too far behind!"

"Whew!" Monterey Jack let out a heavy breath when the office door closed. "I thought he'll never leave! And you call me a blabbing guy! I'm mute compared to him!"

"Yes, maybe," Chip agreed. "So let's follow them before we miss something important!"

The Rescue Rangers ran as fast as they could but quickly found out they should run not after the agents but straight to the roof since Branson wasn't going to talk in the building. The parking lot was another matter. One could breathe some fresh air there and discuss everything in detail and without haste, far from the strangers' ears. Human ears, that is, for the agents could even imagine the bat hanging upside-down from the nearest lamp-post was listening to them and understood them perfectly.

"I'm sorry, Mister Branson," Salinger said when they stopped by the Marauder.

"For what exactly?"

"Well…" Howard cast his eyes down on his boot tips. "For spoiling everything…"

"If you had spoiled everything I would have sent you not to Springfield but to Newark to write your letter of dismissal."

"You mean I'm not fired?"

Branson laughed. "If agents got fired after such things, there would be nobody left in the Secret Service. Sure, you made your share of mistakes, but overall that wasn't that bad for the beginner. My first witness interview almost ended up in a tragedy."

"What?" Salinger was dumbfounded. "Really? How did you manage to become a deputy head of the Presidential security then?"

"Well, first of all, it didn't end up in a tragedy. Second, I made the right conclusions. Yes, it was a cruel lesson, but also a necessary one. I became who I am owing to it for a large part. So don't get upset for no reason but keep learning. It will be of much use for you in the future. Trust me, you are lucky to have a chance to work with a man like Morrison, so I can only envy you and advise you to keep your eyes and ears open. He's very clever, as you probably noticed."

"He is!" Now that the clouds dispersed over Salinger's head, he regained his ordinary mirth. "But you outfoxed him for good!"

"Outfoxed? Me?" Branson was genuinely surprised. "If you mean Blather's death, he didn't buy it even for a second!"

"Why? He gave up!"

"He didn't give up. He realized I had no right to reveal him the truth and I would hold my ground against all odds. It was a mere show of politeness on his part and his ability to avoid smashing his head against a solid wall."

"Really?" Howard shook his head in confusion. "It's so complicated…"

"Not at all," Branson objected. "It's even more complicated than that, so don't let your guard down. Do you have a story of the bridge camera? You do. Keep repeating it over and over. Or even better, keep mum."

"Now I'm feeling like a spy behind the Iron Curtain!" Howard joked.

Trevor didn't even smile. "And you are right to do that. Nice analogy, by the way, remember it. Here," he took a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment and handed it to Salinger.

"What's this?"

"The thing you forgot in my car. Alright, I'm out of here. Looking forward to your message. And be sure to listen to the recording of our conversation!"

"Will do, sir!"

"Goodbye, then… Oh, wait, stop. Concerning your friend—"

"You mean Andy— Oh, darn…"

"Why so careless?" Branson reprimanded him. "Alright, let's pretend I didn't hear that. Thank your friend on my behalf. He really helped us. Will you?"

"Sure thing!" Howard promised and went back to the police station while Foxglove hurried to her friends staying on the roof and discussing their next steps.

"Looks like we need to split!" The Aussie was offering.

"I don't think it makes sense," Chip was objecting. "You always pick the more important object to follow, and Branson clearly wins here. And he's going to Washington. We must find out what he will do there."

"I know it!" Foxglove announced cheerfully. "He asked his aide named Johnny to arrange meetings with, ehm… Oh, I recalled! With Gordon Brightman and Eliot Pryce!"

Chip frowned. "Are you sure about that?"

"I heard it with my own ears!"

"Who's that?" Monterey Jack asked. "Those names do ring some bells…"

"Sure they do! It's the head of Horizon Corporation and the CIA Director!"

"Right!" The bat remembered. "Blather mentioned Brightman in his show! That's why his name sounded familiar to me—"

"After him!" Chip broke her off pointing at the Marauder leaving the parking lot. "If he plans to be in DC in an hour, the service plane must be waiting for him!"

"Helicopter," Foxglove corrected him.

"Helicopter? Great!" The chipmunk rejoiced. "We'll catch up to the helicopter! Know where it is?"

"In LaGuardia."

"That's even better! We'll be able to visit the HQ on our way there and pick the others up! Come on!" Chip dashed to the Wing but failed to get to the cockpit due to the plane's side getting in his way.

"Chipper! Are you alright?" Monterey Jack bent over his friend spread eagled over the roof tar.

"Thanks, everything's under control!" Chip rubbed his injured nose. "Have you got enough sleep? Can you pilot?"

"To the Glacier Bay and back!"

"No, that would be the wrong way. Can you lend me a hand? It's getting cold."

Without a word Monterey Jack lifted Chip up and helped him to climb onto the wing. The chipmunk sat in the third row and reclined on the seat, exhausted. Say what you like, but two hours of sleep hardly compensate for two days of running and thinking. "Wake me up when we reach the HQ," he told his friends.

"Sure?" Monterey asked.

"I wouldn't ask if I weren't."

"Well, you know better," the Aussie decided not to argue and took off.

"Exactly," Chip muttered instructively as he curled up. It took him some time to assume a comfortable pose and to get used to the sound of the engines, and he caught a glimpse of the two electricians finishing meddling with the wires on the post across the street from the police station and returning to their van. He noticed them back when he and Monty were approaching the station and it seemed suspicious that they spent so much time on a single post. The chipmunk was about to share his suspicions with his friends, but then he thought it wasn't really that strange. First, they could have worked on other posts while the Rangers were inside the station and return to this one just to check everything was in order. Second, his experience of working together with his wife proved that even a seemingly simple thing like an electric wire could malfunction in so many ways it would take a whole day to find the problem… Soothed by the explanation he found on his own, the chipmunk closed his eyes and forgot of the van completely.

It was a mistake.

"So?" Pete inquired caustically as he put a box with a laser microphone back into the van. "What will Mister They-can't-use-phones-and-drive-cars say now?"

"Shut up, it's bad enough without you already," Brad barked, deeply regretting to have underestimated those rodents but not wanting to admit that neither to himself nor to Pete and certainly not to his superiors. "But now we know for sure those were the MAP and the First Chipmunk, because no other rodent could have done that! If only we could find out how they happened to be there and what they were up to…"

"We know that! They dug into the Blather's files!"

"You sure didn't access those?"

"No, I'm telling you! I didn't even launch the browser!"

"Nice situation, what can I say… Well, our mission is to report it and let our bosses make the best out of it. So nothing bad really happened."

"Just like with Blather? I told you we should have finished him off!"

"We couldn't have! We had clear instructions!"

"We had instructions to kill him! Do you understand? To kill! And now he's sitting God knows where drawing our portraits if he hadn't already!"

"I spoke with the boss about it. He said he'll settle everything."

"Yeah! They'll take us out silently and nobody's the wiser!"

"Don't talk nonsense! They act differently!"

"Even with those who failed them twice? Don't be naive!"

"Don't be an idiot yourself! We didn't fail at all! Nobody told us to kill the MAP, only to remove the bugs, and we did that! And we threw Blather down as we were supposed to! Who could have known that darned dog would happen to be there? Nobody! And we can't be held accountable either!"

"I hope our bosses think the same," Pete sighed. "By the way, don't you think they can work together? I mean, that dog and the MAPs…"

Brad almost dropped the ladder. "Petey, are you crazy? How can they work together?"

"How can I know?! But everything fits—"

"You're wrong! Nobody trained dogs-assassins!"

"What if it's another, even more secret project?"

"Chemist would have known about that."

"What if he knows but doesn't show it?"

"Stop it! Our bosses can forgive many things, but they get rid of paranoiacs quickly and completely!"

The threat worked, and Pete became professional again, at least on the surface. "Alright, don't yell, I just look through the variants!" He helped his accomplice to put the ladder back onto the van's roof and looked at the Marauder which was a barely visible black dot now. "I think he's more than a thousand feet away…"

"Much more! Send the message, now!" Brad shoved his partner inside with so much force he almost hit the opposite wall, and went to the driver's seat. They knew Branson was heading to LaGuardia and they had to make sure he boarded the helicopter waiting for him. Then they would return to their daily activities awaiting instructions concerning their new surveillance target, the next victim or transfer to another region of the country. The organization constantly moved its agents from state to state to make it harder to trace them and link them to a particular crime.

Brad was right not to worry for his and Pete's fates. If their bosses decided to dispose of them, he, being the higher ranked officer, would be instructed not to tail Branson but to 'disband' their team. It would mean that he and Pete had one hour to commit suicides in public or there would be a chase after them so fierce that even the Wild Hunt would pale in comparison. The organization had a large number of people specifically trained to unearth the renegades and put them to slow and painful death. During the organization's existence they had to do it only three times and only at the very beginning, for afterwards all the disbanded, knowing too well about their predecessors' fate, obediently shot themselves in their heads…

"Don't forget to send the recording!" Brad reminded his partner turning the van in the direction of New York.

"I won't!" Pete promised. His specially configured laptop quickly found the wireless network hidden from the rest of the world and in a couple of seconds a home page of the Secret Service internal server appeared on his screen.


End file.
